


The Psychology of Genetic Sexual Attraction

by sonofabiscuit77



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“…50% of of reunions between siblings, or parents and offspring, separated at birth result in obsessive emotions...”<br/></i><br/>This story begins in 2001 in a garage in Palo Alto when 18-year old Stanford student, Sam Sharma plucks up the courage to ask car mechanic, Dean Cooper, out for a cup of coffee.   Their attraction is instantaneous and overwhelming, and the relationship that develops seems perfect.  Except nothing is really perfect, and this particular love story started a long time before Sam and Dean even met.  </p><p>Wincest non-hunting AU. This is my attempt at a boys-don’t-know-they’re-brothers story. Also includes: domestic!boys, jealous!boys, high-powered-lawyer!Sam, mechanic!Dean, and sex scenes in formalwear and office-wear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this article: http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2003/may/17/weekend7.weekend2 about real-life instances of genetic sexual attraction from which the quote is taken. 
> 
> Special thanks: to my betas, gategirl7 and longerthanwedo. Especially gategirl7 who read this monster through twice!

“Dean! Your stalker’s here again!” 

Dean lifted his head from under the hood of the Mustang and squinted in the direction of the shop door. “Which one?” he called back. 

Rafael rolled his eyes, said, “Fuck, man. The kid, the ginormous college kid.” 

“Oh,” said Dean, straightening up. He reached for the rag to clean off his dirty hands. “That one.” He allowed himself a brief smile then glanced back towards Rafael. “Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.” 

He didn’t need to look at Rafael to know that he was rolling his eyes again, bitching under his breath as he stepped back into the reception area. Dean took his time cleaning off his fingers, popping a couple of buttons on his boiler suit and mussing up his hair before he made his way out of the shop. The kid, _the ginormous college kid,_ was standing by one of the floor-length windows, near a pathetic rubber plant, his back to Dean. His broad shoulders were slumped in the way of someone who was uncomfortable with their height; someone who wasn’t used to towering over everyone and still wasn’t sure how it’d happened. 

“Hey, you’re back!” Dean greeted him. 

The kid jumped and spun around. His eyes landed on Dean and immediately a flush of red and pink flooded into his cheeks. He ducked his head and nodded awkwardly, his long, dark bangs falling across his eyes. 

“Oh, yeah, um, hello again,” he muttered. 

Dean smiled genially, trying to put the kid at ease. Christ, it was too fucking cute, the blushing, the fluttering eyelashes, the bobbing Adam’s apple. 

“So, you got another problem with your ride?” 

Eagerly latching onto the question, the kid nodded, not daring to look Dean in the eyes as he gestured. “I think it might be the engine. Well, obviously it’s the engine, ‘cause, you know, duh, it has to be. But maybe, like, the carburetor? My roommate, Brady, has this friend, Christian, he sometimes works at his uncle’s garage in Fresno, he was taking a look for me and he thought it might be that. But, um, I don’t know, I totally suck with engines, and Brady, he’s from Fresno too-” 

“Okay,” interrupted Dean, trying to halt the flood of words, “and where are you from?” He grinned disarmingly at the kid whose mouth immediately snapped shut in an almost comical way; he stared at Dean for a second, blinking. 

“Um, I.” 

“Dude, it’s not a trick question,” said Dean with another grin, this time going more for reassuring than disarming, the kid was already disarmed enough. “Just making conversation. Me for example, I’m from South Dakota, my folks live in a nothing town called Branston, best thing going for us is the I-90. But, we all gotta grow up somewhere, right? What about you?” 

“Newport Beach, Newport Beach in Orange County.” 

“Huh, sweet,” said Dean, quirking up an eyebrow. “Nice place. That’s cool, man.” 

The kid looked confused for a moment then he nodded, the movement making his messy hair fall across his face once again. “Yeah, yeah, I guess it’s, um, nice.” He trailed off and they stood in silence, just looking at each other, a weird tension practically vibrating in the air between them. 

Dean licked his lips and cleared his throat, finally breaking the silence. “So you wanna take me to her? Let me see what’s gotten up her skirt this time?” 

The kid nodded again, his mouth twitching at Dean’s weak attempt at a joke, these little dimples coming into play in a way that just made Dean’s smile widen and his chest feel tight.

The first time he’d seen the kid had been towards the end of August, a couple of weeks ago. The kid had walked into the garage, looking about as awkward and out of place as a dude buying tampons. Pete had been manning the front desk that day, and the kid had stood there lamely trying to describe the strange noises coming from his engine. Pete had had no fucking clue or no fucking patience with him and had just turned and bellowed into the shop: “Dean! You wanna come out here! We got a customer!” Like Dean wasn’t already up to his perfectly sculpted forearms in jobs and could just leave the three others he had waiting to mosey on out there and be patronized by another spoiled college brat. 

He’d been wearing an old white tee that day with the sleeves shorn off, the front and back, hell, all of it, splattered with grease and oil, the neck and pits damp with sweat. He’d been passing a wet rag over his head, squeezing the cold water into his hair, letting the drops roll down his face and neck and onto the stained shirt, (seriously, it had been a really fucking hot day and the AC in the shop had been shot to shit), when he’d come face to face with the kid. The kid had just stared at him like he was witnessing his own private Diet Coke moment, standing there, mouth hanging open, gaping at Dean like he was the holy fucking grail of gay fantasies. It had been both absurdly flattering and strangely endearing. 

It’d been pure coincidence that Drake, one of the other mechanics, was off sick on that day. Though, maybe the coincidence had a lot to do with the lack of AC and Drake’s tolerance for heat being non-existent. Anyway, Dean had ended up dealing with the kid, sacking off the other repair jobs he’d had stacked up just to fix the sad but well-kept Honda Accord. It’d been a simple radiator problem, but the look of gratitude on the kid’s face afterwards, not to mention the fucking beautiful grin he’d given Dean, was enough for Dean not to begrudge the lost lunch hour he’d spent showing him how he should be filling the radiator in future. 

That was the first time. 

The kid had been by maybe three, four times since over the following month, always asking for Dean by name, always with a new problem, always stammering and blushing and barely managing to look Dean in the eye, but occasionally giving him these blinding smiles that somehow made everything worth it. 

Dean didn’t usually do the generic repairs, the Honda Civics and the Toyota Corollas, (not forgetting the Toyota Priuses, this was California, after all). He spent most of his time, when they weren’t backed up, with the classic cars, which was the way he liked it. Palo Alto was hardly poverty-ville and there were plenty of wealthy silicon assholes and over-paid professors with sweet rides. He had a lot of regulars, real auto-lovers all of them, guys who loved their rides and didn’t care how much they spent to keep them on the road in perfect condition. Dean had been fixing a fucking beautiful Jaguar XKE only last week which belonged to a regular customer, Cliff, total douchebag, but he never failed to kick in with a good tip after Dean was done, and the car was a real beauty, so it wasn’t like he had anything to seriously complain about. 

He followed the kid out to the parking lot, keeping a short distance between them, enough so he could enjoy the view, ‘cause he couldn’t deny that the kid was easy on the eye. For someone who was so tall – and Jesus, he was really fucking tall, 6’3, 6’4, maybe – he had a pretty sweet ass, and sure, the front view wasn’t half bad neither. 

He got the kid to pop the hood, and had a good poke around. He doubted that there was anything actually wrong, the last time the kid had been here, he hadn’t been able to find anything. Hell, it wasn’t like Dean didn’t _know_ just why the kid kept coming back here every week with a new “problem”. Even Rafael, who was as fucking dense as a two by four, knew just why the kid kept coming back here so often. 

“Just another poor asshole gotten sucked into the Dean Cooper fan-club,” he’d teased after the last visit. 

Dean had nudged him with one elbow, snarked, “Rafa, man, your jealousy is showing.” 

“ _Dude_ , that kid’s fuckin’ jailbait!” 

Dean’d just smirked at him. “You wish you could be as lucky as me.” 

“Don’t go infecting me with your gayness, homo!” Rafael had called out as Dean’d made his way back into the shop, but he’d been grinning the whole time, waggling his tongue at Dean. 

“Sorry, man, I can’t see anything wrong with it,” Dean said to the kid, lowering the hood and looking up to where he was hovering by the passenger side door. 

The kid nodded anxiously, his tongue slicking over his bottom lip. Dean stared at it, mesmerized. Okay, he was definitely going to hell, because Rafael was right, the kid was jailbait, but man, he was _some_ jailbait. 

“Oh, um, okay. I...” he hesitated then looked up at Dean. “Willyoupleasehavecoffeewithme?” 

“Come again?” 

The kid blushed furiously, then seemed to gather himself, the corners of his mouth curling upwards and his eyes going half-lidded and heated in a way that made Dean’s pulse quicken. “I wondered if you wanted to have coffee with me, like, on a date? That’s if you, um, if you’re into guys? I think you are. I mean I don’t have a gaydar yet, but, I, um, overheard some of your co-workers talking and they mentioned that you were, like, flexible?” At this point he blushed even harder, so freaking hard that Dean started worrying about the blood-supply. “So, you know, I figure, why the hell not? ‘Cause, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I kinda like you. That’s if, you, um, want?” 

He was doing that annoying California brat thing where he let his voice go up at the end of a sentence. It was something that Dean hated, but it seemed weirdly less annoying coming out of this kid’s (let’s face it) really fucking pretty mouth, so he blinked, licked his lips and said, “Kid, how old are you?” 

It was a rare victory for his brain over his libido, but as much as he was attracted to this kid, and hell, he really, _really_ was, he also really, _really_ didn’t want to get hit with a statutory rape charge. 

The kid smiled self-consciously; Jesus, those fucking dimples were going to kill him. “You think I’m too young, don’t you?” 

“No, I just wanna know that if we do go out, and if things _do_ happen from there, then I’m not gonna end up arrested for corrupting a minor, or whatever. I’m just, you know, being prepared. Like a good boy scout.” He grinned and the kid laughed, ducked his head, that shy, embarrassed look spreading back over his face. 

“I’m eighteen,” he said. “And in - in California, the age of consent is eighteen. For, uh, both heterosexual and homosexual intercourse.” 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Well that’s good to know. And you know this because?” 

The kid flushed, said, “I’m a pre-law major, it’s, like, part of the deal to know these things.” 

“Right.” Dean shook his head, huffed out a laugh. “See, I knew you were smart! And that gaydar of yours, well, you don’t gotta worry about that, I can tell you, kid, it’s pretty damn functional.” 

The kid laughed again, this time less shy and more genuine. He took a couple of steps forward and stuck out his hand. “Thanks. But, please, don’t call me kid, my name’s Sam.” 

Dean took his hand, the kid squeezed back, wrapping some goddamn _enormous_ fingers around Dean’s, making Dean’s own hand look strange and small in comparison. 

“Sam,” he repeated. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Dean.” 

 

***

 

Their first date was in a diner not far from one of the university campuses. It wasn’t in Dean’s usual neighborhood and it took him a while to find a place to park, seriously, sometimes he fucking hated this goddamn town. So by the time he did make it to the restaurant Sam was already waiting, playing with his cell phone and glancing up and around him anxiously every couple of seconds. Dean paused by the window and watched him from the outside. The kid, Sam, (God, he had to remember to call him that), had smartened up for the occasion, _for their date_ , wearing a dark-blue button down and what looked like some nice tight dress-pants. Dean most definitely couldn’t wait to see what they did to that cute ass of his. His hair was slicked down, and he looked like what he was – a well-heeled, smart Stanford kid – something miles away from Dean’s customary social circle.

He hesitated for a moment, feeling self-conscious in his old blue jeans, black tee-shirt and the battered, leather jacket that had belonged to his Uncle Jim. He knew he looked good; he’d checked himself out enough times in the full length mirror in his bedroom before coming out. Hell, he knew he could carry off anything. But this kid was smart and rich, this kid came from Newport Beach for Christ’s sake, this kid had prospects. Maybe he was just playing around here, wanting to take a walk on the wild-side with his own bit of rough. Then again, he’d also invented various car problems in order to come into the garage just to stare at Dean, so it was pretty much a given that Sam was into him enough not to give a fuck what he wore or how he spoke. And fuck it, this could be fun. Sam was cute, really fucking cute, and he was tall with fucking enormous hands and feet, and if he promised to be proportional... well this could be one hell of a first date. 

With a deep breath, he pushed the door open and went inside. 

“Hey,” he greeted Sam. 

Sam’s head jerked up from the menu, eyes widening in relief as he took in Dean. He broke out into a smile that was big enough to split his face in two, dimples slicing into his soft, smooth cheeks. 

“Hey. I thought for a while there, you weren’t going to come.” 

“I’m not that late, am I?” 

“No, no. It’s just,” Sam hesitated, blinked for a second, then blushed. “I’m not really - I haven’t really done this much before. And you." He stared at Dean, a wide-eyed, genuine look on his face that made something twinge in Dean’s chest. “You’re just, you’re really, really hot, you know? You must have tons of people wanting to date you.” He broke off and the blush got even redder. “Oh Jesus, I can’t believe I just said that. Pretend I didn’t say that.” 

“Oh hell no!” said Dean. “I’m remembering that. You should know that with me – compliments will get you everywhere. And for the record, you should take a look in the mirror sometime, you’re hardly the elephant man.” 

Sam ducked his head, shoulders shaking in a way that told Dean he was laughing again, nervously, but hey, still laughing. “Thanks,” he said, still with that same overly-honest, genuine look. Jesus, if the dimples didn’t end him first, then that look was gonna do it. 

“Let’s order, huh? I don’t know about you, man, but I am freakin’ starving.” 

To Dean’s relief, Sam seemed to enjoy his bacon double-cheeseburger as much as he did. They shared a couple of orders of curly fries and these deep-fried brie things that Sam said were awesome. Dean’d been wary about them at first, but Sam turned out to be totally right. 

“Dude, it’s like I just came in my mouth!” he exclaimed after taking one bite. 

“Are you trying to say that you liked it so much it was like an orgasm? Or that it tasted like come?” Sam asked, looking amused. 

“Hell, both,” said Dean, smacking his lips together. “When I say it tastes like come, that’s a compliment. Nothing much I love more than giving head. ‘Cept gettin’ it of course.” 

This time the color seemed to drain from Sam’s face and Dean smirked evilly to himself as he noticed Sam squirming in his seat. “Did I just give you a woody?” 

Sam blushed again. Jesus, but the kid seemed to have blood either rushing upwards or downwards; Dean was beginning to worry about his oxygen supply. 

“Yeah, you did,” Sam finally managed to grit out. “God, this is really embarrassing.” 

“No way. Just thinking ‘bout you, sitting pretty there with your cock getting hard is giving me one, too. Just so you know.” 

Sam groaned, and dropped his head into his hands. He splayed those awesomely long fingers of his and peeked through them at Dean. “You’re an asshole, you know? And a tease.” 

Dean smirked hugely and reached for another come-flavored, deep-fried snack. “So, I’ve been told.” 

They went to a couple of bars afterwards. For places that were mainly full of Stanford students, they weren’t too bad. Better than some of the places Dean had tried once or twice over the months he’d been living there. They’d all been way too full of fucking hipsters with their lame-ass skinny ties and silk vests with jeans, (Jesus, he fucking hated that look), listening to god-awful whiny chicks and dudes whining about how they couldn’t get laid because no one understood their pain. 

“It’s one of the places where I can get served,” Sam said, looking apologetic. “I’ve only been here once and it’s a bit of a dive, but, you know...” he trailed off with a shrug and pushed the doors open, immediately the sound of a covers-band playing a not-totally-atrocious version of _We’re An American Band_ hit them and Dean turned a grin on Sam. “Hey, this place is kinda alright, college boy.” 

They listened to the okay covers-band, Dean getting up at one point to request _Whiskey in the Jar_ to Sam’s embarrassment. 

“My uncle loves this song,” Dean told him after they started playing the intro. “We fight all the time over whether or not Thin Lizzie or Metallica did the best version. He reckons it’s Thin Lizzie, but he’s so freakin’ wrong. What do you think?” 

Sam looked uncomfortable for a moment, then he shrugged. “I don’t know. To be honest, this is the first time I’ve heard it.” 

Dean’s eyes widened incredulously. “Dude, _dude_ , your musical education has been seriously lacking!” He held up one hand with a pained expression. “And, no! Please, don’t tell me what you do usually listen to. I don’t think I can take the disappointment.” 

Sam laughed, jostled him with his elbow. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a real drama queen?” 

Dean’s expression went prim and he raised his eyebrows in a mock-offended way, saying, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Samuel.” 

All in all, by the time they were leaving, heading back towards where Dean had left his car, he was starting to think that it was one of the best dates he’d ever been on, and they hadn’t even made out yet. But it was easy to talk to Sam, like now, heading down the street, shoulders banging together, talking sports, Dean talking about the local baseball team he played for on weekends. 

“You play baseball, are you any good?” asked Sam. 

“Good enough to be offered a scholarship to Minnesota State.”

“Seriously? Wow, that’s impressive, dude. You must’ve been really good to have even been considered.” 

Dean gave his most fake-modest, most bullshitty grin, gratified to see the impressed look on Sam’s face. “I wasn’t so bad.” 

“So what happened?” 

“Well, you know, things didn’t work out so. Injuries and money and shit. It was only a partial scholarship and I – well – I didn’t want to land my ass with a load of college loans. Plus Minnesota’s fuckin’ freezing, I wanted somewhere warm. Now if it had been Florida or Louisiana State, things might’ve been different.” 

“But don’t you regret it? Not going, I mean?” 

“Nah. Not really. I mean I love playing ball, but college wasn’t for me. All that pressure to keep up your grades and show up on time for class. Way too much like high school. I’m far too lazy for more of that crap.” 

“I’m sure you’re selling yourself short,” Sam said, a softer, fonder tone stealing into his voice. 

Dean raised one shoulder in a half shrug, and looked away, glancing over towards the other side of the street. The expression on Sam’s face was making him uncomfortable, not in a bad way, the kid was way too good to look at to ever cause that, but there was something else there, some genuine emotion that just unnerved him. 

They came to the Impala, and Dean stopped, laid one proprietary hand on the roof, smoothing over it, the bodywork cold to the touch. 

“Well, this is it, this is my baby.” 

“Your baby?” said Sam, raising his eyebrows. 

Dean gave him a sideways look; the overhead streetlights were catching Sam’s face, bathing it in cool orange light, bringing out the whiteness of his teeth, the high angles of his cheek-bones. “Yup,” he said. 

“I knew it! I knew you’d have an awesome car like this.” 

“I am a mechanic. Be kinda lame if I didn’t drive an awesome car.” 

Sam frowned. “That doesn’t always follow. You ever see a male hairdresser with a good haircut? They’ve always got totally fugly hair.” 

“Dude, how gay are you?” Dean said, and Sam laughed, jostled him. 

The movement sent Dean sprawling against the side of the car, (he’d had a few drinks, not his fault), and he steadied himself, looking up to see Sam watching him with that wide-eyed, disbelieving, way-too-honest expression in his eyes. The streetlights above them were still playing over Sam’s face in a way that emphasized the slight animalistic slant of his eyes, the inky strands of hair as it fell across his forehead, the cut of his cheekbones and that generous, wide mouth. He looked ethereal, mysterious and really fucking gorgeous. 

“Hey, c’mere,” Dean breathed. He reached forward and fisted his fingers in Sam’s smart button-down shirt, less smart now than hours earlier, and pulled him close. 

Sam fell into him, breath puffing against the side of Dean’s face. He could feel the heat radiating off of Sam, feel the hardness of the body hidden under his clothes. He slid his other hand around Sam and smoothed it down his back, to the soft woolen curve of his ass. He splayed his fingers and dug into the hard flesh, squeezing, hearing Sam moan. 

“Been wanting to do this all night,” he whispered. 

“God, me too,” Sam groaned. He tilted his head back, meeting Dean’s gaze, eyes wide and dark, lips pink and flush. 

Dean didn’t hesitate, just latched his mouth onto Sam’s, their lips falling into each other, tongues devouring each other, kissing in a way that felt like Sam was trying to suck out his soul. God, he’d never been kissed like this, with this much intent, this much fervor. 

Sam pulled away. “Oh my God,” he panted, “Dean...” 

Dean had no idea how they managed to make it back to his apartment. Sam was sitting so close beside him, pressed up against his side on the bench seat, his big hand burning a brand on Dean’s thigh, promising things that – God - Dean couldn’t think about right now. He had to get them both home, because if he crashed now he was gonna regret it for the rest of his eternal afterlife, or whatever else came next.

When they got back to Dean’s apartment, they couldn’t wait. Sam on him as soon as he closed the front door, tackling him to welcome mat his roommate, Stu, had bought months before when he’d first moved in, the bristles hard against the thin cotton of his t-shirt. They made out, clawing at each other, hopelessly trying to push each other’s jackets off. Dean broke away and panted for breath, feeling Sam’s fingers all over him, soft, whimpering sounds escaping from his mouth as he muttered, _“Dean, get it off, get it off...”_

Dean laughed breathlessly and pulled away from him, shrugging his jacket to the floor and attempting to toe off his boots. Sam watched him from his position sprawled across the welcome mat (and Jesus, what a welcome that was), his eyes wide, pupils blown and hair beyond mussed. His shirt was half unbuttoned, the tails hanging out his pants, and his jacket hung off one shoulder. 

“Shoes and jacket!” Dean hissed. 

Sam scrambled to obey him, so eager that it would’ve been comical if Dean hadn’t been so turned on. He pushed to his feet and grabbed onto Dean’s arm. “Where’s the bedroom? God, we need the bedroom, like, now!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean gulped and dragged Sam down the hall, through the den and into his own room. 

He leaned back against the door and snapped the lock shut. “Don’t wanna be disturbed,” he said.

“God, no,” breathed Sam, and he was on him again. Those enormous hands cradling Dean’s head, his thumbs on Dean’s cheekbones, dragging gently across his skin. “You are so, _so_ attractive,” Sam said, his tone suddenly deeply serious. “You’re just, fuck, so beautiful, Dean. Can’t stop thinking about you, been thinking about you, imagining this since I first saw you.” 

Dean swallowed, he didn’t know what to say, he felt like the power of speech had evaporated from his brain, left his throat dry and wordless. Sam was staring at him as if he truly believed what he was saying – that Dean was the most beautiful and amazing thing he’d ever seen – and it was unnerving and terrible and incredible all at the same time. He pushed forward, grinding his hips into Sam’s, feeling Sam’s hard-on through his dress-pants. Sam gulped, his eyelashes fluttering as Dean wrestled with Sam’s belt, sliding it through his belt loops and letting it slither to the floor in a soft clatter. 

Sam was gazing at him, his eyes not moving from Dean’s face as Dean flicked the buttons of Sam’s dress shirt open, skating one hand down the smooth, tan skin. He leaned in, pressed his face to Sam’s shoulder, the curve of his neck, and inhaled, filling his senses with Sam’s smell, the warm, pungent scent of his skin, the salty, sweaty buzz of it against his lips. 

“Christ, you smell good,” Dean groaned. 

Sam growled (like, actually freaking growled) and clawed at the back of Dean’s shirt, bunching the fabric in his hands as he forced Dean’s head back and leaned down to take him into a bruising kiss. Man, for someone who’d admitted that they were pretty much a virgin in all things gay-sex-related, Sam seemed to know exactly what he was doing. 

Sam slid his hands down to Dean’s biceps and squeezed, _hard_ , pushing him away from the door and manhandling him until Dean felt the back of his legs collide with the bed, losing balance for a moment as Sam pushed him back. He fell onto the bed with a winded ouff of breath. Sam followed, fingers locked around Dean’s arms, hair falling in his face, sticking to his cheeks and temples, damp and curling at the ends. 

Dean stilled, and stared up at Sam, his big, long body blocking out the light, his shadow falling over Dean, masking him from head to toe. Sam looked wrecked, his once nicely pressed dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, only two buttons still done up, the rest torn open. His pants gaped open, the fabric slipping down his narrow hips without his belt to cinch them up. Dean blinked, caressed his fingers over one sharp, exposed hip-bone, the skin smooth and hot to the touch. 

“Dean,” Sam sighed. He made a noise at the back of his throat and ducked down, nuzzling his face into the crook of Dean’s shoulder. He mouthed and trailed wet, sloppy kisses along Dean’s throat, and down his chest, humming happily under his breath, the vibration making Dean feel like he was buzzing inside. Dean felt an unbearable tenderness, a rush of desperation to be closer, to wrap Sam up in his arms and hold tight, squeeze him so hard they melted into one. His heart beat manically, pulse throbbed as Sam raised his head once more, their glazed eyes meeting. 

Sam’s mouth crooked gently, and that was it... Dean hauled him back up his body and into a kiss, a hot, painful, searing kiss. He used his weight to roll them over, straddling and looming over Sam. His hand fisted tight around Sam’s big straining cock, squeezing and flexing his fingers, feeling and hearing Sam’s answering moans and shivers of arousal. 

He pushed at his jeans, wiggling his hips as he worked them down his legs, over his thighs and knees until they pooled around his ankles. He dug his knees into the mattress, finding purchase, one hand in Sam’s hair and one on Sam’s cock, his mouth against Sam’s cheek, breathing in the scent of Sam’s skin. He started to thrust, grinding his cock down against – into - Sam, his hand trapped between their bodies to clumsily jack Sam’s cock. Sam grabbed and clawed at him, sinking one of his huge hands into Dean’s ass cheek like he was grabbing a basketball, grazing the tips of those long, beautiful fingers against Dean’s crack. Dean groaned and increased his pace, turning his face into the hollow of Sam’s throat, jerking his hand up and down Sam’s shaft, rubbing his dick against the crease of Sam’s thigh and belly so hard it felt like they were generating sparks. 

It didn’t take long. Sam cried out, panted Dean’s name, and he was coming, spilling over Dean’s fingers, strings of hot, sticky come. A second later and Dean was following, shuddering out his orgasm into the cleft of Sam’s thigh. 

He lay there, spread-eagled over Sam, collapsed on top of his body, heart hammering furiously in his chest. With a humongous effort, he raised his head, blinked the sweat out of his eyes and looked down, into the shadow cast by their entwined bodies. The two of them were bathed in sweat and come. He skimmed his hand down Sam’s chest and circled one finger in the warm, gooey mess they’d made.

“Dean?” Sam whispered. He was staring up at Dean, his bottom lip caught beneath his teeth, a jagged, purple color. 

Dean swallowed, said, “We’re all sticky.” 

Sam’s mouth twitched, awkward and embarrassed. “Yeah.” 

Dean took a deep breath and shifted backwards until he was sitting back on his haunches, his ass against the backs of his calves. 

“I’ll go get something to clean us up.”

He slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom. The apartment was still dark, Stu not in from his night out. He probably wouldn’t be back until dawn, it was the usual pattern, which meant that they had hours yet. He could keep Sam in his bed for hours if he wanted. He rinsed the washcloth under the warm water, and quickly cleaned himself up, his belly and thighs, cock and balls. He rinsed the cloth off again, and went back to the bedroom. 

“Here you go.” He tossed the cloth at Sam’s chest, it landed with a dull, wet slap. He turned and made for the kitchen, filling two big pint glasses with water from the tap. 

When he got back to the bedroom again, Sam was finished, the cloth lying discarded on the nightstand. He felt Sam shift closer as he slid back into bed, their sweaty legs jostling together. 

“I, uh, I just want to get this out here now, ‘cause I don’t want all the horrible embarrassment thing in the morning,” Sam said. He reached to take the pint glass from Dean, their fingers grazing in a way that made Dean’s pulse skip a beat. “You’ve probably already figured this out, but I really like you, like, _a lot_. I know for you this might be a one-time thing, ‘cause, although I’m kinda new to this, I do know some stuff about the scene, and how it works and how we’re supposed to fuck around on the first date and then never see each other again. But I, um, I _want_ to see you again.” His voice shook over the last few words and Dean felt another rush of tenderness for him. He knew exactly how the scene worked, had worked it himself enough times when he was in the mood for that sort of thing. But Sam was young - Jesus, he was only eighteen - and okay, so Dean was only four years older than him, but Dean had lost his virginity when he was fifteen. In comparison to Sam, he was a freaking veteran. 

“Dude, Sam, chill. I don’t want this to be a onetime thing neither.” 

“Yeah?” breathed Sam.

Dean blinked, repressing a nervous snigger at Sam’s awestruck tone. Sure, Dean was good, but seriously, was he really _that_ good? And what the fuck was wrong with the gay population of Newport Beach and Stanford University? They were missing one major fucking prize here, Sam was his for the taking, and the thought was both terrifying and marvelous. 

He cleared his throat, said, “Yeah. So, listen, man, don’t worry. I fully intend for us to repeat the experience. And maybe add in a few new experiences next time. Hell, I could be your gay sex teacher.” 

Sam grinned, wide and happy, those freaking dimples again. “I’m sure you would make an awesome gay sex teacher.” 

“You’d better believe it.” 

 

***

 

He called Sam the following day, left a message on his voicemail, asking him to come by the garage after class. 

“No excuses, man, not like you don’t know where I work,” he said with a forced chuckle. “Um, so if you’re here by five thirty, then we could go get dinner together, maybe a few beers? Maybe something else, like, order in? Anyway, whatever, just be here, or if you can’t, then call me.” 

After he hung up he stared down at his cell phone, at the contact labeled: SAM, biting his lip. What he’d just done – well to say it was widely out of character – yeah, it was widely out of character. He’d even programmed the kid’s number into his phone with the correct name. 

He sighed and slid the phone back into his pocket and turned back to the Mustang. Whatever, the thing wasn’t going to fix itself, and he really didn’t have time to waste mooning over his love life like a high school chick.

Unfortunately, thoughts of Sam, memories of the previous night, just wouldn’t fucking quit for the rest of the day, looming up in his head to torture him at the most inappropriate moments. Images of Sam laid out beneath him, that look on his face when he’d come, how his cock had felt in Dean’s hand, the slide of his fingers across Sam’s warm soft skin.

He looked up from the engine and adjusted the crotch of his boiler suit for the thirteenth… fourteenth time that day, and tried valiantly to think of something unsexy.

Sam arrived on time, came into the shop dead on 5:30pm, hovered in the doorway, looking around him with fascinated eyes. All the other guys had already gone home, but Dean was working on the same Mustang he’d been working on the last time he’d seen Sam, there was something wrong with her engine that he just wasn’t getting. 

“I never saw back here before,” Sam said. 

Dean slid out from under the car and sat up to look at him. From this angle, Sam looked absurdly tall, towering way above him, his shadow thick in the strip lighting. 

“’S’not like there’s much to see.” 

“That’s your opinion,” Sam answered with a smug little gleam in his eyes that made Dean’s skin prickle. “I told you, I know nothing about cars, this is all new to me.” He was carrying an enormous backpack over one shoulder. “Look, I guess you’re going to work for a while longer, so is it okay if I set my laptop up out there and do some work?” 

“Be my guest,” said Dean. “I’m gonna be another 30 minutes at least.” 

“Cool,” said Sam and wandered off. 

Dean finished up as quickly as he could and made his way into the main office where Sam had spread out his shit over the reception desk, laptop and various heavy-ass law books spilling pages. He was hunched over the screen, idly tapping his pen against the side of the machine, completely focused on some dense lines of text. 

“Hey!” Dean called out. 

Sam jumped, spun around. “Hey. Are you done?” 

“For tonight, definitely.” 

Sam nodded, got to his feet and started bundling things into the enormous backpack, except he didn’t get very far, ‘cause Dean was on him, pushing him up against the reception desk, flicking at the buttons of his jeans.

“Dean, Dean, what are you doing?" 

Dean sank to the floor, tugging Sam’s jeans down with him, pulling them over the glorious curve of his ass. He leaned in, pressed his face to Sam’s boxers, the thick, dark hairs on Sam’s thighs scratching against the side of his face. 

“Dean?” Sam breathed, his voice cracking. “Oh, Jesus, are you seriously gonna – are you gonna–“ 

“Blow you? You bet your sweet ass I am.” 

“Oh God,” Sam sighed. 

Dean chuckled and turned his attention back to Sam’s cock. Man, he was really starting to appreciate Sam’s cock. Last night had been good. Hell, scratch that, last night had been fantastic, but he was fully awake now and sober and not half-deranged with horniness and sexual frustration after spending four solid hours in Sam’s company. Tonight he wasn’t going to blow his load from a little frottage. Tonight, right now, he could really appreciate what was right in front of him. 

He yanked down Sam’s boxers, his cock springing back at him like a switchblade, the head slapping against Dean’s cheek. Dean grinned to himself and wrapped his hand around the base, hearing Sam whimper, seeing the trembling in his thighs. 

“Oh God, Dean, Dean." 

Dean smirked and carefully licked up the underside, up every glorious proud inch. Mmm, it tasted so good, it smelt so good. He could feel his own cock, now fully erect, pressing against the tight seam of his jeans, and he licked his lips and leaned in again, opening his mouth as wide as it could go (and that was pretty fucking wide) and taking the head fully into his mouth. 

Sam let out a cry and clutched wildly at the edge of the desk, sending a sheaf of invoices and pencils tumbling to the floor. Dean didn’t even notice, too busy working his mouth up and down the length, gripping tightly at the base ‘cause Sam’s cock was fucking huge, and he was only human, there was no way he was getting that entire tent pole in his mouth at one time. 

“Dean, Dean, I’m gonna – Dean – please, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna–“ 

Dean ignored him, refusing to release his tight grip, working his lips and tongue relentlessly, pulling away to swirl the tip of his tongue over the slit, then swallow it all back down again. He heard Sam’s groan, felt one enormous hand in his hair, trying to tug at him, pull him off. 

He only pulled back as he felt Sam start to come, watching Sam’s legs shake, hearing the harsh, broken pants of breath. He worked his fingers gently, resting the head of Sam’s cock against his lips, milking it with his fingers until Sam’s breathing started to even out, the thick mucus-like liquid gathering on his lips and tongue, filling his entire mouth. He sloshed the contents around his mouth as if it were warm syrupy coke, the brackish salty taste a stark contrast to the strong coffee he’d drunk earlier. 

He got slowly to his feet, sparing Sam a hamster-cheeked smirk before turning to spit the entire gloopy mess into Rafael’s Raiders mug conveniently sitting on the reception desk. Ha, it served the fucker right for never cleaning up his own shit, plus Dean hated the freaking Raiders; karmic fucking justice is what it was. He placed the mug back on the desk and turned to Sam with raised eyebrows and an entirely smug look. 

Sam looked wrecked, his cheeks flushed, hair hanging in his eyes, pants and underwear around his ankles, cock jutting out, red and big and shiny with Dean’s saliva. Dean stared at it and felt his own hard cock give a twitch. 

“Shit, I can’t believe you just – you just gave me a blowjob,” Sam stammered. 

“That was your first, huh?” 

Sam blinked sheepishly and he bent to pull up his pants, tuck himself back in, squinting at Dean from under his sweaty bangs. “Was it that obvious?” 

Dean shrugged but he smiled at Sam, a warm feeling building in his chest at the knowledge that he was it – he was the first – the first guy to go down on Sam. He got there first. It was strange how important that seemed to be. 

“I, um, do you want me to do it for you?” Sam’s gaze wandered over Dean’s erection, obvious in his tight jeans. 

“You ever given head?” 

“No, but I don’t mind trying. I mean, it’s only fair.” He took a tentative step forward, coming to rest a few inches from Dean, the heat from his body bleeding off of him, a warm tangible presence between them. He placed one hand over Dean’s crotch, curling his fingers around the shape of Dean’s cock. “Or I could help you out, like, jerk you off?” 

Dean held his breath and slowly raised his eyes to Sam’s. “Yeah, yeah, that would work.”


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next few weeks he saw a lot of Sam, every other day at least. It was great. In fact, it was pretty fucking awesome, and the fact that Dean didn’t mind, that Dean actually _liked_ having the kid around, like, all the freaking time was the most worrying thing about this entire damn situation. He wasn’t used to feeling like this. From the moment he’d realized he was into guys as well as girls, he’d felt like he didn’t fit in. He certainly hadn’t fit in back in Branston, South Dakota. Even living here, in the Bay Area, an oasis of tolerance compared to his home town, working a job he enjoyed, with plenty of willing fuckable guys and willing fuckable chicks passing through his bedroom on a regular basis, he still didn’t feel like he fit in. Maybe it was partly due to his bisexuality, he didn’t fall neatly into either camp. Most of the girls and even the one dude he’d dated over the years had been suspicious of his claim that he was equally happy eating out a chick as he was sucking cock. 

Being with Sam was different. Sam was different. Sam claimed not to care that Dean still dug girls, that Dean was way more experienced with sex than he was. Sam slotted into everything, into each different part of Dean’s life. Sam forced himself in there like he’d always been there. 

Sam was fucking terrifying. 

Sam called on Saturday, just as Dean was starting work, asking Dean to come to a frat party with him that evening. Sam didn’t want to go, most of the guys were assholes, and he’d only agreed because his roommate, Brady, had begged him. At least if Dean came too then the two of them could hang out together, mock the dumb frat boys and get wasted on their beer. Dean hesitated, listening to Sam’s warm ,persuasive voice, fighting the instinctive response to agree, to just say yes because Sam was the one asking. Instead, he swallowed back the instinct and told Sam that he already had plans. 

So he went out, joining Stu at Destiny for the first time in weeks. Though after Stu’s twentieth or twenty-first taunt about jailbait boyfriends and being whipped (and not in the good way), he started wishing that he’d gone to the damn frat party with Sam. Still, the night wasn’t over, and as he was there and he was horny, he might as well get what he came out for. 

In the end, he did get what he came out for: a hook-up and above average sex with an overeager muscle-queen called Trent. Dean went back with him to his loft in Mountain View where they smoked a lot of Trent’s excellent weed, snorted some poppers, and had loud, noisy sex, Dean fucking the shit out of the guy while he begged for it _“harder, harder, give it to me harder, big boy”_ which – yeah – kinda embarrassing, but still - sex. Trent collapsed afterwards, falling asleep straight away. Dean wasn’t surprised, the exertion of so much fucking and screaming and begging had evidently gotten the best of him. But Dean most definitely wasn’t in the mood to stick around, or even to go for round two once the guy recovered. He got dressed and called himself a taxi from the business card he found stuck to the front of Trent’s huge-ass refrigerator, which also came handily with the account number and password details. 

Once home, he fell into his own bed with his stomach churning, drunk and aching from the stomach-roiling mixture of whiskey, poppers and pot. He turned his face into his sheets and breathed in deep. The lingering scent of him and Sam from two nights ago invaded his nostrils, making him feel like worse than shit. 

He rolled onto his back, stared up at the ceiling and concluded that he was screwed. 

He called Sam later that day and invited him over for dinner, something home-cooked and nutritional. Sam, like the big romantic he was, fucking loved home-cooked dinners. Dean wasn’t that much of a cook, but did have a couple of dishes in his repertoire that Sam’d already tried and enjoyed. One of these was something resembling spaghetti in marinara sauce, a recipe he’d picked up from the side of packet of pasta shells years earlier and since adapted to his own tastes, i.e. with a lot more chili and garlic. 

He was frying off the onions and garlic and tomatoes in the pan, Sam keeping him company, perched on the worktop next to the stove, his long legs thumping against the cupboards and his enormous boat like feet scraping against the floor. Sam updated him on the party, on who had hooked up with whom, intermittently leaning over to steal slimy strands of spaghetti from the pot with slick, long fingers, turning to Dean with a gummy grin that made him look younger than his eighteen years. 

Dean batted Sam’s hands away, and felt suddenly like a cradle-snatching pedophile. 

“Don’t you have friends of your own to hang out with?” he snapped, momentarily forgetting that he was the one who'd issued the invitation in the first place. 

Sam’s face froze for a second, then he shrugged, looking self-defensive. “Yeah, sure I do. But I saw them last night, and anyway, they’re not as pretty as you.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. Sam leaned over into his space and licked up the side of his jaw, holding Dean’s head in place with one of those enormous hands. Dean pulled away and wet his lips, looking Sam in the eyes. 

“Samuel, I’m serious,” he said. 

Sam made a face. “Don’t call me that, you sound like my Dad.” 

“Samuel,” Dean whispered again. “Sam. Sammy.” He watched the ripple of Sam’s throat as he swallowed, eyes locked on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. “Sammy,” he repeated, slowly raising his eyes to Sam’s. He leaned in to press a kiss to the edge of Sam’s pouting mouth because... _man_ it was there and that pout was just so freaking adorable and he just – he couldn’t help himself. 

Sam responded immediately, grabbing onto his face and thrusting his tongue into Dean’s mouth, warm and salty and slimy and spaghetti flavored. Dean kissed him back for a second, then mindful of his caramelizing onions, pulled away to add chili flakes to his sauce. 

“You’re amazing, you know that,” Sam said, using this ultra-serious, reverential tone of voice. “Sometimes I look at you and I can’t believe that you’re with me. You make me feel so much, Dean. Just being with you…” he trailed off, swallowing audibly. 

Dean turned slowly to look at him. Sam’s eyes were wide and bright and so freaking sincere that he had to blink. Jesus, this kid. He swallowed, mouth dry, fingertips tingling where they gripped the spatula. “Sam."

“I know, stupid timing, huh? I’ll, um, I’ll shut up. Pretend I didn’t say anything. Like always.” 

He was blushing furiously, cheeks red and flushed, eyes dark and liquid. He bowed his head, bangs sliding across his forehead to obscure his eyes, those small curls of hair around his ears. 

Dean cleared his throat, said, “Um, how about you get the knives and forks? I’ll just finish up here.” 

Sam nodded without raising his head and slid off the worktop, turning to get the knives and forks out the drawer and a couple of beers from the refrigerator. He knew where everything was already. He’d officially been here enough times to know where Dean kept his plates and bowls and freaking stemware. Dean sneaked glances at Sam as he drained the noodles, gaze lingering over the slouched curve of his back, his long fingers placing the cutlery and bottles of beer on the table. He wanted nothing more than to slide across the floor and drape himself around Sam, suck Sam’s fingers into his mouth, press his face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in. Smell that scent that was all Sam, rub himself off against him until they both came in their pants. 

He didn’t do that. Instead, he ladled the noodles into two deep pasta bowls and dribbled the sauce over them, placing the bowls on the table. Sam looked up and smiled at him. “Thanks, this smells fantastic.” 

Dean nodded, his mouth dry as he stared back at the expression in Sam’s face. “Yeah, thanks. Eat up, or it’ll get cold.” 

He sank to his own chair and started to eat. He was actually really hungry; he’d barely eaten all day. He could feel Sam’s eyes on him as he ate, feel the weight of Sam’s warm, affectionate gaze, and he thought about last night, about that guy, Trent. He couldn’t remember what he’d looked like, how it’d felt to fuck him, though he was pretty sure he’d enjoyed it at the time. He guessed that that was what chicks called meaningless sex. He’d never really believed in such a thing before. Sex was sex, and it was pretty much always awesome, whether or not he knew the name of the man or woman he was bending over the back of the couch. Sure, it was nice when you did know the person, when they knew your sweet spots and you theirs, but one-off sex was still great. This time, though, the way he’d felt afterwards, when he’d gotten back here and rolled into bed. Not good, not satisfied.

Guilty. He’d felt guilty. What he was feeling right now – looking at Sam’s open, happy expression – was guilt. He’d fucked some guy, had meaningless sex with some dude and he felt guilty about it. For a moment, he wanted to unburden himself, tell Sam what he’d done the night before, have Sam forgive him. Though, Jesus, what for? He and Sam weren’t in some freaking relationship, they weren’t boyfriends, they technically hadn’t even had sex yet. Sam was still an ass virgin, and Dean wasn’t so much of an asshole as to push an eighteen year old kid into bottoming for the first time, and he didn’t really like it the other way round. So, all things considered, he was perfectly within his rights to fuck some guy last night. He didn’t owe Sam anything. 

_But how would you feel if it had been the other way round?_ The thought crept into his head as he watched Sam reach across the table to help himself to more pasta. Eyebrows drawing together as he concentrated on transferring the slippery spaghetti strands to his bowl. 

Last night perhaps… while he’d been fucking that guy. Maybe there’d been some frat-boy asshole, someone who’d noticed just how fucking hot Sam was, who’d used all his best lines on Sam, who’d pressed him up against the wall of some disgusting frat-house and kissed him, shoved his hands down Sam’s pants and jacked him off. 

No, just no. No freaking way. The thought filled him with utter revulsion. The thought of some asshole’s hands on Sam’s skin. Someone else getting to see what Sam looked like when he lost it, someone else hearing Sam’s dry, whispered moans as he got closer to orgasm. 

He dropped his fork into his bowl with a clatter, startling Sam, who jerked his head up and stared at him. 

Wow, he was acting like a serious drama queen here, but – but this was serious. He had to do something. He had to make sure that that didn’t happen. 

“Sam,” he said, licking his lips involuntarily, meeting Sam’s confused gaze. “I – you should know, man, that what you said before about me, about us. You gotta know – it’s the same for me. This you and me thing, I just–“

“Didn’t see it coming?” Sam finished. 

Dean huffed out a wry laugh, shook his head. He reached for his beer bottle, took a quick pull. “Yeah. Something like that.” 

“I know what you mean.” 

Dean worried his lip and nodded. “Yeah.” 

“You know, it’s okay, Dean. I get that you’re not used to the dating thing.” Dean made a scoffing sound in the back of his throat and Sam chuckled weakly. “Yeah. And I’m not either. This is just as new to me as you. I’ve never really dated anyone. Not since I realized that I liked guys at least. You’re pretty much my first.” 

Dean raised his eyes slowly to Sam’s face, watched the blush beginning to stain his cheeks. He’d figured out that Sam was new to this dating thing, that Sam hadn’t been with many (any?) guys before him, but he was okay with that. He was more than okay with that. He wanted to be Sam’s first. He wanted to be the first one to know Sam in that way, to teach him everything he knew. He liked the idea of imprinting his ideas and his experience onto Sam, of molding him into the best gay dude he could be. It meant that Sam was all his, that if Sam met someone else way down the line, he would still carry that bit of Dean with him. 

Wow, that was kinda fucked up. Maybe he shouldn’t admit that last part out loud to Sam (or anyone), like, ever. 

“Yeah, I figured.” 

Sam nodded his head, a steely, decisive look creeping into his eyes. “Yeah. So, um, I figure we should, like, make this official? I really like you, like, a lot, and you probably noticed that,” he huffed out a breath, gave a wry twitch of his mouth, “but I want everybody else to know that too. I want people to know that we’re together and that – that you’re my boyfriend. I want us to be serious, Dean.” He trailed off with another awkward shrug of his overly large shoulders, his face practically puce with the awkward. 

“I like you too,” Dean said. “So, yes. Okay. You got it.”

 

***

 

Things got even more serious after that. In truth, Dean really didn’t know what had hit him. It was definitely true that he hadn’t seen Sam coming. Sam – everything about him – had just hit Dean out of nowhere, knocked him for six, like a career-altering football tackle. But he couldn’t get enough of Sam. He wanted Sam around all the time, and when Sam wasn’t around, he was thinking about him. Jerking off and thinking about him, drifting off in the middle of a job and thinking about him. 

He thought about the way Sam laughed, the way he gestured when he was trying to explain something or argue some point, the way he looked when he was studying or reading, the way he frowned when Dean said something dumb, like he knew Dean was doing it just to get a reaction out of him. He thought about Sam’s voice, about the way he said Dean’s name, quick and sharp when he was annoyed, soft and loving when he was happy, panted and broken when he was horny. He thought about Sam’s body: the curve of his ass in a pair of jeans, the spread of his shoulders under one of his geeky hoodies, the curls of his hair around his ears and his temples. He thought about his enormous hands and clever fingers, the moles on his cheeks, the glittering slant of his eyes and the brilliant warmth of his smile. 

Dean was utterly and completely fascinated by Sam, this ridiculously over-grown, way too smart and way too sincere kid. This kid that just – just _did_ things to him – made his insides clench up and his chest hurt and his heart beat fast and his cock as hard as diamonds. And what was even more amazing, even more amazing than the fact Dean had finally turned into a thirteen year old girl, was the fact that Sam seemed to feel exactly the same way about him. 

And they were boyfriends. They were a couple. They were _together._

Apart from the fuck-up with Greg, (the one, the _only_ dude he’d ever dated, back when he first arrived in Palo Alto), it was a long time since he’d dated anybody. His last long-term, serious relationship had been Liza Dumont back in senior year, and she’d ditched him at Senior Prom. Which had been his fault, not reading the situation right _at all_. In an incredibly stupid and drunken move, he’d admitted to her that he was maybe like kinda sorta attracted to guys as well as girls, but she shouldn’t worry ‘cause it made no difference to them, because she was awesome and he didn’t want to be with anyone else, but he felt bad keeping the truth from her. 

It’d been a bad move. An exercise in why telling the truth and admitting shit about yourself never got you good karma, but always managed to get you royally screwed over. Liza Dumont had dumped him, kicked him to the curb with the wrath of a humiliated and self-righteous teenage girl on a God kick. She’d screamed at him for betraying her, for breaking her heart, and being a nasty disgusting homo. She’d told him to go to hell – literally – since that was where he was headed anyway if he embraced the sinful, ungodly path of the sodomite. 

He’d gone home that evening, drunk eight bottles of his uncle’s favorite strong brown ale, and thrown up all over his bed. When he’d woken up in the morning, he’d vowed to get out of Branston as soon as he could. 

He’d left only two months later. He’d taken the money he’d saved from pulling shifts at Honest Bill’s Auto Repair for his last two years of school, gotten into the classic Chevy Impala his father had left him, and made his way across the country. East first, which meant New York, which he hadn’t really enjoyed, though Chelsea had been pretty fucking cool, expensive but cool. So he’d gone south after that, down the coast to Miami, the gay paradises of Miami’s party beaches, where he’d lied about his age and made amazing tips tending bar in a cowboy themed gay-bar and had more sex in a month than in the entirety of his life before then. He’d gone West after that, rambling through the Sun-belt, California-bound like a 1930’s migrant. 

It was easy for him to get work in all those towns he passed through. There was always work for a good-looking, legal, English-speaking boy who could tend bar, wait tables, wash dishes and fix cars. And when there wasn’t work, there was the opportunity to put his pool-sharking skills into practice, to run a hustle or just impress some guy or chick enough to guarantee a bed for the night and a good breakfast. 

It took him four months to cross the country. He spent the next two years wandering up and down the West Coast. From Seattle down to El Cajon and all the towns in between, eventually fetching up somewhere around the middle, answering an ad in a local paper in Palo Alto for a mechanic with classic car experience. 

He’d enjoyed life on the road. In many ways it had suited him, feeling free for the first time in his life. There hadn’t been anyone or any place to fit in with when he was on the road. No need to worry about other people’s opinions, about other people’s expectations, no pressure from Aunt Marion and Uncle Jim, teachers and baseball coaches. The small-town mentality he’d grown up with faded away as he partied on both sides of the country, mixing with people who had no inhibitions, who didn’t care who he liked to screw. He’d liked being able to just up and move on whenever he felt like it. His only responsibility to make rent for wherever he was staying, not get arrested and remember to call his Aunt and Uncle every week, _just so we know you’re still alive, honey._

His original intention had been to stay in Palo Alto for maybe two, three months, and move onto LA afterwards, assuming that he’d be tired of the Bay Area by then. But it was now almost a year and he was still there and he still wasn’t tired of the area. Some of it was the job; he genuinely enjoyed his job, loved the cars he got to fix, and his co-workers and roommate were cool. But most of it – well, now there was Sam. 

This felt like a new stage of his life, a responsible, grown-up stage where he had a steady job, an apartment and a boyfriend. Sam was his boyfriend. Eighteen year-old, smart, ridiculously hot Sam was Dean’s boyfriend. It was strange, and it shouldn’t work. Sam shouldn’t have fit into the life that Dean had made for himself, the nomadic loner life that he’d always assumed would be his ever since he left South Dakota behind him. But Sam did fit, the two of them molded around each other despite their differences. Sam with his trust-fund, Newport Beach family, his ridiculous academic expectations and ambition to become the first out and proud attorney general; and Dean with his aunt who worked in a diner and his truck-driver uncle, Dean who’d only ever had two ambitions in life: to have plenty of sex and to not turn into his father. They shouldn’t have worked, but somehow they did.

They took weekend rides down the coast in Dean’s baby, the windows rolled down so the wind blew up a storm inside, Sam’s hair crazy and whipping around his head, music on so loud the dashboard shook. Sam would turn and look at him from the passenger seat with stars in his eyes, mouth open to whoop out loud as Dean overtook a douchebag in a convertible. Dean would be hard, his cock throbbing between his legs, the vibration of his baby’s engine all around him, Sam’s hand on his thigh like a brand. 

They would stay out so long that the day would drain away, night falling. The bright lights of the Bay, of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge, the cities of Palo Alto and Mountain View and San Jose shining bright and effervescent in the distance, blurry reflections through the dark windshield. Dean would pull the Impala up at his favorite (and almost always deserted) rest stop and there they would climb into the back seat. They’d be on each other immediately: their legs splayed into the footwells, panted breaths misting up the windows. Sam’s hair would be dark with sweat, his body gleaming like he’d been dipped in liquid gold, his eyes dark and slitted with arousal. He would loom over Dean, wrestle him to the sticky vinyl seats and push up his t-shirt to lick around Dean's belly button until Dean was cursing and screaming at him to finish him, to end his torment already. 

Dean had had a lot of sex in the backseat of his baby. The two of them had seen a lot of action over the years since he’d left South Dakota. But these times with Sam, the moments when their bodies slid together, when Sam crawled on top of him with that awed, hungry look in his eyes, these moments were like nothing else Dean had ever experienced before. These moments made him want so desperately to believe that maybe, _maybe_ this would all work out; he would get to keep Sam, to be with Sam, for just a little while longer. 

He introduced Sam to the scene, to his favorite gay bars in the Bay Area. The ones with half-way decent music, good beer on tap, hot guys draped over the barstools and signs in the bathroom stalls saying: NO SEX IN BATHROOMS. THAT’S WHAT THE COUCHES ARE FOR. His hands would be on Sam, in his back pocket, on his arm, around his shoulders, proprietary and back off, ‘cause he knew that everybody in the room would be looking at them, all those guys eying the fresh meat, seeing Sam’s face and his body and his fucking dimples, drooling and coveting what was Dean’s, what belonged to him. And Sam would look around, check out the room, see the guys all staring at them, and he’d smile, lean down closer into Dean and whisper, “Guess I’m going home with the hottest guy in the room. Again.” Dean’s heart would swell, his mouth fold outwards into a grin despite himself, and they’d be kissing, Sam’s thigh sliding between his legs and their bodies molding together. 

Sam introduced him to his friends, to his roommate Brady, (entitled and whiny), to his best friend Jessica (super-hot and Dean’s first choice if he ever plucked up the courage to suggest his three-way idea to Sam), to Becky (should eat a sandwich or four), to Zach (dumb as a tire iron). Dean acted the part of the perfect boyfriend. He went to college parties and Sam’s swim meets. He allowed Sam’s friends to tag along when they went to the movies or hung out in divey student bars where the girls (and even some of the guys) grouped around Dean while he played pool and watched him sink ball after ball. 

 

***

 

For Thanksgiving that year, their first together, he accompanied Sam back to Newport Beach to meet the folks. It’d been the first time since leaving home that he’d celebrated Thanksgiving in any other way than grilled turkey sandwiches from Subway and deep fried apple pie from McDonalds. Of course, that was the moment when Sam informed him that his parents didn’t actually technically celebrate Thanksgiving, that they saw it as a celebration of the rape of indigenous American culture by the white man. Instead, they would be having some sort of Malaysian curry dish authentically cooked by Sam’s half-Malaysian mom and some sort of kulfi Indian ice-cream for dessert made by Sam’s British-Indian father. 

“You’re adopted?” Dean hissed, as he followed Sam up the enormous, winding staircase leading from the marble-floored hallway to the second floor landing. “Why did you never tell me you were adopted?” 

“It never came up,” Sam answered with a shrug. 

“It never came – Sam, seriously? Do you know how embarrassing it was just then? What a fuckin’ idiot I must’ve looked _gaping_ at your parents when you introduced me? You could’ve given me some warning, dude. Said, oh by the way, I’m adopted and my parents are nowhere near as freakishly tall as me, and, oh yeah, my Mom’s half-Asian and my Dad’s Indian.” 

“British-Indian,” Sam corrected with a frown. “He’s got dual British and American citizenship. It’s just his family is originally from India.”

“Okay, well, fine. But don’t you think you should’ve told me all this?” 

Sam turned to him and sighed, “I’m sorry. Okay, you’re right, I should’ve mentioned it. But it’s just. It honestly never occurred to me.” He paused and pushed open the door of what Dean supposed was his room, and okay, so... _wow_. When Sam said his folks were wealthy, yeah, he meant it. This room was about as big as the entire first floor of his uncle and aunt’s place back in Branston. And, wait a second, was that... 

“Holy crap, you got your own bathroom – like your own bathroom! Sweet.” 

He strode over to the half-open bathroom door and poked his head inside. It was sparklingly clean, tiles gleaming, a big sunken bathtub with shiny brass fittings and a separate shower, as well as the toilet and sink. 

“Fuck, dude,” he breathed, coming back into the room. “And this is all yours?” 

“Yeah. Just for me,” Sam said, pouting as he sank to the edge of the freaking enormous king-size bed. “And you know, Dean, if you’d ever come by my dorm-room then you would’ve seen the pictures of the family, and you would’ve seen what they looked like. But you haven’t, so." Sam broke off again with a sulky shrug. 

Dean rolled his eyes; he’d heard that argument from Sam enough damn times already. Seriously, why the hell did he need to visit Sam’s dorm room? The place was full of freaking teenagers. He saw enough of Sam’s friends every time they insisted on tagging along when he and Sam went out for drinks. Anyway, Sam always came to his place. They could have sex at his place, in a decent sized bed without dead-eyed Brady lying five feet away pretending to sleep. He moved to perch on the bed beside Sam, jostling him with his elbow. Sam turned his head and looked at him. Dean raised an eyebrow and Sam huffed out a breath, his lips twitching at the corners. 

“Look, when I was a kid, I didn’t know I was adopted. That was probably really dumb of me ‘cause having parents from two different ethnic backgrounds to me – kinda a big, red flag, but it just didn’t occur to me. For me, my mom was just my mom and my dad was my dad, like everyone else. But when I was about eight, there was this douchebag kid in my class and he spent all of recess one time fucking ragging on me about being adopted, about my real family not wanting me. And yeah, he said shit that was super racist and I don’t intend to repeat it right now.” He broke off, huffed out a laugh. “He was a real asshole in the making. But it hurt, you know? It was dumb racist kid shit, but it hurt. And I remember going home that day and just going up to my Mom and asking her straight off: _Am I adopted?_ And she, well, she told me the truth.” He sighed again, bowing his head as his fingers fiddled with the drawstring of his hoodie. “I felt so fucking stupid for not realizing before. Like everybody had kept this secret from me and was laughing at me behind my back all that time.” 

“Yeah, well, not your fault, man, you were a kid,” Dean said softly. He reached over and squeezed Sam’s knee. “And you know, family doesn’t end with blood. Family’s about who’s there for you when it matters, not about whose sperm or eggs or whatever made you.” 

Family was a lot more than genetics. Family was the people who were there for you, who cared about you, who looked after you when you were sick, and comforted you when you were upset. Maybe his parents had cared about him once, back before his mother had died so horribly in their house back in Kansas, but that was a long time ago, he barely thought about her or Dad now. Uncle Jim and Aunt Marion were the ones that counted; they’d always been there for him. 

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, raising his head, a slight shine to his eyes that signaled held back tears. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ve never – never even thought about whoever my birth parents are. I mean, I know I could trace them if I wanted to, but I don’t know, it doesn’t seem important right now. My family’s my family, you know? They’re the people that matter. I’m not interested in the ones that gave me up.” 

Dean nodded slowly, letting out a long breath. “I know.” He thought about his own father, the few memories he had of the guy, those occasions when he’d come by to take him out. Back when he was six, seven years old, when he’d still idolized his dad, before he’d realized what kind of a guy John Winchester really was. He’d been so scared of failing back then, of not being the sort of son his father wanted, of always failing to live up to his expectations. Always knowing that maybe if he'd been different, if he’d been better, if he’d tried harder then Dad wouldn’t have left him behind. 

He could remember one particular visit when he was nine, overhearing Dad ask Aunt Marion, “Why’s he not playing ball this year?” And her quiet, apologetic answer, “He says he doesn’t want to, John. He has so many other hobbies.” And Dad’s contemptuous snort, “Like those freaking planets or all those damn rocks? I can see how hobbies like that would take up his time.” 

He’d lain in his bed and stared up at his collection of papier-mâché scale planets, at the rotating solar system he’d hung from his bedroom ceiling, the enormous Jupiter and Saturn he hadn’t managed to make to scale because they were just too big, at his shelves of rocks and he’d felt this rush of shame deep in his belly. He hadn’t known that an interest in planets, in space and science, in collecting rocks, were things to be ashamed of, but he’d felt ashamed of it after that, after hearing the dismissal in his father’s voice. 

Dad had gone out and bought him a new baseball mitt, one of the few gifts he’d ever bought for Dean. He’d left it behind, still in the shop’s plastic bag, on the kitchen table for when Dean got home from school. Aunt Marion had been sitting at the table in her waitress uniform, looking embarrassed as she explained that his father had had to leave early, he had a job to get to, but he’d left Dean a present, hoped that he’d get back on the softball team that year. 

He’d gotten onto the team for the rest of that year. Hell, he still played ball regularly. He still loved the game for which he guessed he had to thank his father. But he’d given up on trying to please him in any other way. And as the years passed, and as Dad’s visits got less and less frequent, he started to not care. He was eleven years old when he realized what that smell drifting off his father’s breath and his father’s clothes was, and what the whispers Uncle Jim made to Aunt Marion when they thought Dean wasn’t listening really meant. “Drunk, he’s a drunk, Marion. He’s always been a drunk.” 

And Aunt Marion would defend him, her favorite cousin John. “After what he’s been through, Jim, give him a break, be a Christian.” 

She was the only one who’d cried at Dad’s funeral. Dean hadn’t cried, not at the funeral at least. He’d just felt this overwhelming sense of relief, this weight lifting from his shoulders. He’d asked Aunt Marion and Uncle Jim if he could change his name after they’d buried Dad. He’d asked them if he could stop being a Winchester and become a Cooper just like them. They’d been happy to agree, tears in their eyes when the official adoption papers finally came through, a few days after his thirteenth birthday. 

He could feel Sam’s eyes on him and he gave an awkward sort of a shrug. “Families, huh?” 

Sam smiled, nudged him back. “Yeah.” 

Sam’s parents turned out to be okay. Scary and intense for sure, but pretty cool overall; surprisingly cool about their only barely-legal son dating a guy more than four years older than him who worked in a garage. But they were hippies, ridiculously rich Californian hippies, but still, hippies. They welcomed Dean into the family, seemed genuinely happy to meet him, declaring that anyone who had their Sam so spun around had to be a good guy, to Sam’s immense embarrassment. 

Dean knew the bare facts about them. Sam’s Dad, Rishi, had built his business up from nothing, had come to the US in the 1980’s to do a grad course at Stanford and he’d started up a hi-tech firm manufacturing parts for computer motherboards, and been incredibly successful at it. He’d moved into software in the late 1990’s, and pioneered video streaming during the 00’s. He’d been even more successful at that. He was currently worth well over a million dollars, though Sam honestly had no idea exactly how much. 

Sam’s mom, Celeste, had met Rishi at Stanford while she was a grad student. She’d been a professor and an academic in the anthropology field for several years after her graduation, until she’d had a crisis of faith and switched to a less lucrative but much more emotionally fulfilling career as a public school teacher.

Rishi latched onto Dean with a shared love of American classic cars and the glories of the combustion engine in general. Dean was proud to show off his baby to Sam’s millionaire dad, finally finding a topic of conversation where he could speak without stumbling over his words, where he could be eloquent and interesting and worthy of Sam’s faith in him. Rishi seemed to be impressed, running his hands over the Impala’s bodywork and peppering Dean with the sort of questions Dean only tended to get from his really devoted customers. Later on in the evening, the bonding went even further when Dean happened to mention that he was working on restoring a pair of ancient broken CB radios in his spare time. Rishi’s face immediately lit up and he dragged Dean off to view his mini home laboratory, his “tinkering oasis”, shelves and shelves of old and new electronic equipment, old computer and telephone parts, drawers of microchips and jumbles of wires. 

Sam’s mother, Celeste, was also pretty cool, scarier than her husband, and with that overwhelming public-school-teacher vibe that always managed to make Dean feel like a high school freshman again. She commandeered Dean to help her fix dinner one night, gushing about how Sam had told them what a great cook he was. Dean protested and shot death-glares Sam’s way (to Sam’s amusement), but he couldn’t get out of it. Luckily, it seemed that Celeste was one of those cooks who just needed someone to chop veggies and wash up, someone to talk to while she did the real work. 

She kept up a steady flow of words the entire time, mainly about Sam, about how they hadn’t been at all shocked when Sam’d told them he was gay. Sam had already told Dean this story, explained how his parents had cut him off in the middle of his big coming-out speech and said, “We know, honey, you’re gay. We’ve known for a while.” 

“D’you know why we adopted Sam?” she asked, looking up from her simmering pots with that burning, incisive gaze that Dean could imagine being very effective on her students. Luckily, the question seemed to be rhetorical, and she continued without Dean’s response, “My mother, my sister and my aunt all died of breast cancer. I know that I will get breast cancer eventually, despite medical advances or healthy living. But I was determined that no child of mine would ever succumb to our family’s curse, would never live with that kind of a death sentence hanging over them.” 

Dean nodded, hoping vainly that he wasn’t supposed to comment at this point because – seriously, what was he supposed to say to that? _Sorry, man, that sucks_ , just didn’t cut it. At least, he now knew where Sam got his propensity for “over-sharing”. 

“At first Rishi and I chose to never have children, but then we began to feel that it was our duty to the world to give something back. Doing charity work, giving money, for people with our resources, it’s easy. But to devote your life to raising a child that isn’t your own, that takes something special. And even then, I was still unsure. I felt certain that I was not cut out to be a mother. But that was until I met Sam.” She looked up and smiled at him, a serene, intense sort of a smile that reminded Dean overwhelmingly of Sam, of that unbearable earnestness that Sam could sometimes unleash. He blinked at her and nodded, but she didn’t seem to need any prompting to go on, lost in her retelling. “Sam was about fourteen months old when we first saw him in an orphanage in Santa Ana. He was such a beautiful baby, so quiet, but with this amazing inner-life. As soon as I held him in my arms, I will never forget how that felt, Dean. I knew immediately that this was the baby for us, that this would be my little boy. It was an extraordinary sensation, an awakening of something inside me that I’d never imagined. It was a truly life-changing experience.” 

She turned then, looked at Dean as if she was noticing him for the first time. “I was very eager to meet you, Dean. I’ve heard so much about you from Sam. And now, meeting you, I can understand why. You’re an extremely handsome boy, and you seem to be very personable, very charming. I can understand why Sam is so taken with you.” Dean blushed, his mouth drying up as he tried to hunt for some sort of a response. Luckily she didn’t seem to need one, boring that same matter-of-fact, sincere gaze into him. “I’m not just saying this because I’m his mother, but Sam’s an extraordinary person, Dean. I hope you appreciate that.” 

He blinked and nodded, stammering, “Um, yeah, yeah, I do.” 

She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded, as if satisfied. “I believe you.”


	3. Chapter 3

They’d been together for about eight months (Christ, eight months) when Sam announced that they should move in together. 

“Huh? What?” Dean did a double-take and dropped the socket wrench he was holding. It slid, slippery and greasy, from his grasp and landed with a dull thud on the yellow grass. He angled his head, peering around the open hood to stare up at Sam. Sam was leaning against the side of the Impala, arms crossed over the roof, chin on his crossed arms. He turned his head and squinted down at Dean, the sun playing off his eyes and teeth, his wide, smug smile. 

“You heard me, dude. I’ve been thinking, and I think we should live together.” 

“Sam." 

Sam raised one hand, his taking-no-shit stance. “Hear me out. Brady was getting on my case about signing up to room together for next year and that just got me thinking that I didn’t actually want to room with him next year.” 

“Well, duh, ‘cause he’s a douchbag,” scoffed Dean. 

“He’s not a douchebag,” Sam said patiently. “That’s not the point. The point is that I don’t want to stay in the dorms. I don’t want to share with my friends. I want to live with you. Dean, I stay over with you, like, four, five nights a week. It won’t be that much of a change if I’m staying over every night of the week.” 

Dean’s mouth worked as he gaped at Sam. It hadn’t occurred to him that Sam might want to change their current arrangement. He liked their current arrangement. He liked having Sam around, but he also liked to know that Sam had another base. Somewhere Sam could retreat to if they fought or if they pissed each other off too much, ‘cause yeah, that happened, like that time last week when he’d been trying to complete _Silent Hill 2_ , and Sam’d been trying to study and ended up having a pissy fit ‘cause Dean was being too loud and too obnoxious yelling at fucking James Sunderland to fucking move already. Or when Sam nagged him about what Sam called his “slob ways”, like leaving his wet towels on the bed or not doing his dishes straight after eating or never ever opening any of his damn mail. Not that any of that shit was Sam’s business, but Sam had pretty much made everything to do with Dean his business over the past eight months, so, yeah. 

“Dean, just think about it, think about what we could do together if it was just us, all the time.” 

“Just us, like, no Stu?” 

“Of course no Stu!” answered Sam like Dean was acting purposely retarded. 

Dean should’ve expected that. It was not news to him that Sam didn’t have much time for his roommate. In Sam’s words, Stu was exactly the sort of gay man straight people thought all gay people were: frivolous, sex-craved and bitchy. And in Stu’s words, Sam was the worthy, uptight and way too fucking self-righteous kind of homosexual that gave other gay dudes a bad name and that it was a fucking shame that someone as hot as Sam had to be such a buzzkill. 

“Just say you’ll think about it,” Sam pleaded. 

Dean swallowed and resolutely didn’t look Sam in the eyes. Everything would be over if he looked Sam in the eyes. Sam’s eyes were fucking magic, Sam was the most persuasive motherfucker that Dean had ever met, and it was all in the eyes. 

He dared a quick glance, and saw Sam pushing himself up off the car, taking a couple of strides towards him and reaching up to cup Dean’s face, cradle it between his two enormous hands. 

“Dean, think about it, just us, you and me. It would be amazing. You know you want to.” 

Dean swallowed again and slowly raised his head. Shit, the eyes, there they were, Sam really did not play fair. He was so fucking screwed. 

“Yeah, okay, whatever you want, Sammy.” 

 

Sam took apartment hunting very seriously, contacting local realtors, and making long check-lists of everything his dream apartment had to include. 

“After all,” he explained to Dean, “if we get the right place, we can keep it for the rest of my time in school. It’s such a hassle to move every year.” 

Dean just sort of gulped and nodded agreement, feeling quietly terrified and unbearably affected by Sam’s words, by Sam’s matter of fact belief that the two of them would still be together by the time Sam finished college. 

For the most part, he let Sam get on with it. Sam had a system and was frequently on the phone to his mom consulting her on what they should be expected to pay for rent, deposits, maintenance charges and bills, constantly adding and crossing things off his master check-list like a deranged teenage girl planning her super sweet-sixteen. 

He finally found somewhere worthy of a second inspection and dragged Dean along. It was in a nicer neighborhood than Dean’s current apartment, close to the campus, but further from the garage which put it way above Dean’s price-range. It was decorated in cool cream and brown decor inside, hardwood floors and gleaming black and white bathroom and kitchen tiles. There was a built-in stove, enormous refrigerator and even a dishwasher. Dean had never lived anywhere that had a dishwasher before.

The building had a superintendent who lived in and a doorman who didn’t. There seemed to be an active residents committee that liked to arrange fundraisers, if the bulletin board in the lobby was anything to go by, and a huge security-camera-ed parking garage where Dean might even consider leaving his baby overnight. The basement also had a brand new gym that residents were free to use and Sam was already banging on about how much more convenient it would be to work out there than using the on-campus student gym. There was however only one bedroom in the apartment, and although Dean’d been assuming that he and Sam would not be sleeping in different rooms every night, (considering he was planning on them having sex at least once a night), there was something terrifyingly permanent and _real_ about them having only one bedroom between the two of them. 

“I like it,” Sam declared after the scary, over-eager dude from the agency had shown them around. “Say yes, Dean.” 

He sighed, thinking of Stu’s “witticisms” the evening before about Dean’s balls: the general lack of them or the location of them (Sam’s pocket). 

“Sam, how are we supposed to afford it?” he asked. “I can’t afford this place.” 

Sam blinked, confused by the question. “I could afford this place on my own.” 

“You mean your parents could." 

“Well, yeah, of course. They want me to live somewhere nice, in a good neighborhood. What’s wrong with that?” 

Dean shook his head. Sam genuinely didn’t get it. Sam had never had to consider the cost of anything in his life. It wasn’t Sam’s fault, not really, just the way he’d been raised, another of the glaring differences between them. 

“Nothing, nothing, man. It’s just – this ain’t me, Sammy – this place-“ 

“Why not? Why isn’t it you? ‘Cause it’s new, ‘cause it’s expensive?” Sam interrupted. “Dean, you deserve this! And I want to live here with you. C’mon, just say yes. It’ll be great, our place – you and me. You want that, don’t you?” 

He moved to grip Dean’s hand, raising the other to cradle Dean’s cheek, turn his face so their eyes met. And, Jesus, that was it, those freaking eyes. 

Dean sighed, thinking longingly of the shiny, clean kitchen, the power shower, the enormous king-size bed, and Sam in it. “Okay, yeah, whatever you want, Sam.” 

 

They moved into the place in the middle of the summer. Sam’s parents drove up from Newport Beach to lend a hand, bringing along a U-Haul full of all of Sam’s shit that hadn’t fit in his tiny dorm room the previous year, along with several boxes of the kind of designer kitchenware that wasn’t sold in Wal-Mart or Target and had twenty year guarantees as a housewarming gift. It took the four of them six trips to get all of Sam’s shit moved into the apartment, and one trip for the sum total of Dean’s worldly possessions: a couple of duffles full of clothes, two cardboard boxes of books, DVD’s, videogames and bedding, and his well-loved George Foreman grill. 

It didn’t take them long to get settled in, and by the time Sam started back at school, Dean found it hard to remember a time when he hadn’t lived with Sam. He woke up every morning with Sam stretched out over most of the bed, taking up as much space as it was possible for one overgrown nineteen year old to have. Dean had been waking up to Sam beside him for most of the previous year, but it felt different now, knowing that Sam would be there when he got home from work, that Sam wouldn’t be cycling back to his dorm to work on his Lit paper, that Sam would be going to bed with him that night, and that they’d wake up all over again together the next day. 

It was pretty awesome. 

Of course it wasn’t awesome _all_ the time. It would be boring if it were awesome all the time. The two of them were plenty stubborn and argumentative enough to piss each other off on regular occasions. 

One night Dean got home late after a really shitty day to find Sam and his “lab partner” with their heads bent closely together over Sam’s laptop, apparently working on something they called “coding”. 

Dean grunted in acknowledgement at their cheery greeting and got himself a couple of beers from the refrigerator, settling down into the couch to watch the Wednesday night game, and ignoring Sam’s pointed sigh and glare at his uncouth behavior. 

Whatever, Sam and his study buddy seemed to be having plenty of fun, laughing and chuckling together in some freaking language that seemed to be a cross between Geek and Nerd, and that was doing a really fucking good job of distracting Dean from watching the game. He was also so not appreciating the way Sam’s buddy was sitting so damn close to Sam – seriously, did their thighs really need to brush? Or the way he kept congratulating Sam on some new idea in this breathless, admiring tone. In fact, it was pretty freaking obvious to Dean that this dork-flavored asshole was harboring some serious man-love for his boyfriend, and Sam, the devious little bitch, was no doubt completely aware of this and had invited him back here just to drive Dean fucking crazy. 

Well, Sam wasn’t winning ‘cause Dean wasn’t jealous, and he wasn’t going to play that game. 

He finished his beers and stalked back to the kitchen to get a couple more. 

“Hey, would you get us a couple!” Sam called out. 

Dean huffed out a breath and picked up a couple more, slamming them onto the table by Sam’s elbow as he strode back to the couch, not missing Sam’s irritated and pointed glare. 

“You know, jealousy is not a good look for you,” Sam commented two hours later after he’d finally closed the door on his fanboy. 

Dean gave him the finger, eyes still glued to the TV. 

“Very mature!” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Yeah, right. You wish. Not tonight. I don’t fuck raging assholes.” 

“Sure you do,” Dean said, and he turned to give Sam a smug look. 

Sam narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “You acted way out of line, Dean, like a pathetic, jealous bitch. It was embarrassing. Why’d you even need to act like that anyway? You think I’d ever be interested in _Dan_?” 

Huh, Dan, so that was his name. Dan the dork. Dan the dick. Dan the douchebag. Dean sniggered to himself and Sam’s eyes got even smaller, eyebrows and forehead going into glowering mode. 

“Oh please, whatever, like you’ve never acted like a jealous bitch with me. Cuts both ways, Sammy.” 

Sam sighed manfully, like Dean was such a huge pain in the ass to put up with. “He’s my lab partner! I have to work with him. But that’s all it is. You seriously have nothing to worry about.” 

“I ain’t worried,” he said with a shrug. 

“Oh, whatever.” 

Sam gave an enormous exasperated huff and stomped off to the bedroom. Dean watched him go and dimly realized that he wasn’t getting laid that night. 

It wasn’t Dan. Well, it kinda was, ‘cause it had pissed him off the way the little creep had been all over Sam while he was in the same fucking room. But it wasn’t Dan. He knew he had nothing to fear from Dan. Sam was probably right about not being interested in Dan, Sam could do way better than that. Dan wasn’t the problem, Sam was. 

Sam had changed a lot from the shy, embarrassed kid Dean had first met over two years ago. Sam was so much more confident now, self-assured and self-possessed, confident in his own sexuality, in his power over other guys. He’d even started dressing differently, ditching the hoodies and baggy jeans when they went out for fitted t-shirts and ass-hugging jeans; though he still stuck to his usual college-kid wear around the apartment or on campus. He’d gotten more involved in campus politics, particularly the LGBT Center, helping to organize events for the group, putting his name and his face to posters and flyers as part of their publicity drive. It’d gotten him a lot of attention, coming home with stories of this or that guy propositioning him in line at the cafeteria or in the library. It was annoying. 

Dean’d seen it for himself when they went out: this confidence in Sam, the way the guys would hit on him, and how Sam would lead them on, flirt back some, when only a year earlier he would’ve just blushed and fidgeted and moved closer to Dean. But now, Sam flirted back. It wasn’t that Dean was jealous, he was happy to know that his boyfriend got so much attention. It was flattering for the both of them. And it wasn’t like Dean was missing out, he still got hit on more than Sam – if he was ever pathetic enough to keep track of such things (which he wasn’t). 

But over the past two years, Sam had, fuck – he hated even thinking this ‘cause it was so freaking gay – but Sam had _blossomed_. Which was good and great and all that, but at some point Sam was bound to want to move onto something else – _someone else_ – someone more on his own level. 

He drank another couple of beers and stumbled into the bedroom, fumbling off his clothes and tripping over his boots. He fell into bed beside Sam and promptly passed out. 

When he woke up, Sam was leaning over him, holding out a bottle of water and a couple of aspirin, the expression on his face a cross between exasperated and fond.

“So, you gonna tell me what was with you last night?” Sam asked, as he helped Dean drink the water and take the aspirin. 

“You,” Dean said, too hung-over to edit the words spilling from his stupid mouth. “You’re gonna leave.” 

“What? No, I’m not!” Sam laughed, like the thought was too ridiculous for him to take seriously. Dean just shut his eyes and tried to block out Sam’s face and the harsh, bright sunlight. “Dean.” Dean sighed as he felt Sam’s fingers brush lightly at his hair, pushing it off his forehead. “Listen to me. I’m not going anywhere. Why would you even think that?” 

Dean blinked and opened his eyes, seeing the affection in Sam’s gaze, feeling the gentle brush of Sam’s fingers against his gross, sweaty forehead. He realized that he loved Sam to a ridiculous degree, that Sam meant more to him than anyone else ever had, and that when Sam left him, because he would at some point, he didn’t know how he would bear it. 

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Sam said. “Haven’t I told you enough times already how crazy I am about you?” 

“You weren’t acting like that last night.” The observation was supposed to be all rational and coherent, but it ended up sounding petulant, and he wasn’t surprised when Sam laughed in his face. 

“Seriously? You were acting like a douche last night. Even thinking that I might be interested in Dan? Fuck, man, if I ever did cheat on you, give me credit to pick someone a little more in my league!” His expression softened and he reached out again to trace Dean’s eyebrows, run his fingers over the line of Dean’s cheekbones, it was one of his favorite things, like he was a blind person trying to learn his face through touch. “Not that I ever would do that, you know how I feel about cheating. And seriously, where the hell do you get the idea that I want to leave you? It’s you and me, man. Always gonna be you and me.” 

“Nothing lasts forever,” Dean mumbled, and he rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face into the pillow. 

Sam didn’t say anything else, and a few seconds later Dean heard him get up from the bed and leave the room. 

 

***

 

They didn’t break up, though Dean was always half expecting it, and admittedly, they came pretty close on a few occasions. The worst time, what Dean supposed most people would call “a rough patch”, coincided with the end of Sam’s third year and the fucking LSAT’s. 

Dean hated the fucking LSAT’s, (and in his head, they were always that: the fucking LSAT’s). He hated them with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns. He hated them more than he hated the Raiders, more than he’d hated his fourth grade teacher, more than he’d hated Scott Thompson, the kid who’d spread all those gay rumors about him back in high school. 

He hated the LSAT’s because they seemed to have changed his normally sane and rational boyfriend into a raging, snarling bitch who (what was worse and seriously unforgivable) seemed to have completely lost his sex drive. It wasn’t that Dean demanded daily orgasms, it was just that ever since he and Sam had lived together he’d gotten daily orgasms. Occasionally twice or three times daily orgasms: fucking or blow jobs or hand-jobs or just rutting up against each other on the couch, whatever, Dean wasn’t picky, any kind of sex with Sam was always good. Admittedly, there had been that time last year when Sam had gotten sick and his nose had been all bunged up and he’d refused to go down on Dean for fear of suffocating. But Sam’d still been more than happy for Dean to go down on him and for Dean to bring himself off by rubbing his cock up against Sam’s fever-hot skin. Sam had even admitted that he felt a whole lot better afterwards, clearly proving Dean’s private belief that daily orgasms kept you well in mind and body. 

But it had been four days. Four fucking days, and nothing. No action at all, they’d barely even kissed. Sam woke up, studied, went to the library for fourteen hours, came back, studied, slept for about three hours, got up, studied, went to the library, and so on, and so on. For the past four days. The kid only remembered to eat and drink when Dean forced him to. So, Dean figured he was doing Sam a favor when he hid all of Sam’s law books, practice papers and files and files of notes during the three hours Sam was passed out on the couch from exhaustion. Unfortunately Sam wasn’t seeing it as he was. 

“Where’s my – Dean! Dean! Where the fuck are my notes? What the hell have you done with my stuff?” 

Dean walked slowly out of the kitchen where he was making dinner and smiled genially at Sam. “You okay, man?” 

“No! No!!” Sam’s nostrils flared, his face beet red, hair standing on edge as he began to toss the couch cushions aside, as if Dean had hidden all his study crap _under the couch cushions_ – which, what the fuck, Sammy? He was seriously sleep-deprived. 

“Where did you put my notes? This isn’t fucking funny, Dean! Where’re my notes? And my papers? I need to study! I _have_ to study!” 

Dean sighed and tossed the dish rag aside. He came forward, laid a calming hand on Sam’s flailing arm. “Sam, Sammy, c’mon, man, chill out. Just take a break for a minute, will ya? I’m making dinner. Eat something and get some rest and then get back to the study, okay?” 

Sam yanked his elbow out of Dean’s grasp and spun around, nostrils flaring even further, hand raking through his hair. “Dean – not now. I’m not – I have to study. This is important. This is my future. I have to–“

“Sam, c’mon, get some freakin’ perspective, dude, it’s a fuckin’ test,” he interrupted. “You can take it again. It’s not the end of the world if you don’t get a good score this time around.” 

“Right, right, and how would you know?” Sam’s lip curled up into a sneer. “How the fuck would you know, Dean? You’re just a fucking mechanic, you’ve never even been to college! What the fuck would you know about passing anything?” 

“Just a mechanic, huh?” Dean repeated, his expression hardening. “That what you think?” 

Sam blew out a breath. “Look, don’t twist my words up like that. I just meant – you’re – you’re different. You’re not me! You’re happy like this, happy to mooch along fixing cars for the rest of your life, and never – never _doing_ anything. Dean, you have no fucking idea how this works! You barely graduated high school! You’ve never studied for anything in your life. You don’t get to tell me when and how to do it!” 

Dean nodded curtly, and turned his back on Sam. “Well, don’t let me stop you I put your shit on the top shelf in the bedroom closet!” he called out as he stomped back into the kitchen. He leaned over the worktop, fingers curling around the edge, heart beating fast. He stared down at the sliced onion, garlic and tomato he was about to fry up into a sauce for the baked trout. Baked trout, what the fuck was he thinking? He didn’t even like fish, he’d only gotten it for Sam, ‘cause it was supposed to be brain-food, ‘cause he thought it might help him with his studying. 

But of course, he forgot, he was only a mechanic. He’d barely graduated high school. He knew nothing about how to study. His life was a failure in comparison with Sam’s. 

He pressed his lips together and picked up the chopping board, turning to scrape all the chopped vegetables into the waste disposal. He bent to take the trout out of the oven, the neat careful foil packages he’d made. He stared down at them with pursed lips, they actually didn’t look or smell that bad – for fish – but fuck it, he didn’t want it now. He dropped the pan in the sink and walked back into the den. Sam was in the bedroom, getting his shit down from the closet where Dean’d put it, breathing heavily like he’d just finished a mammoth session of circuit training. He looked up when Dean came in and his eyes narrowed in irritation. Dean ignored him, snatched up his jacket and keys and left the apartment. 

He drove around for a while, silently fuming, going over everything Sam had said to him, all those hard, hurtful words. Well, at least he knew what Sam thought now. At least Sam’d finally said what he’d secretly been thinking all those years – and well, Dean couldn’t fault him for it. It was true. Sam was smarter than him. Sam was more ambitious than him. Sam wanted success and acclaim and all that kinda crap that Dean didn’t want or even understand. Dean was pretty content with how things were, with what he’d done so far with his life. He had a job he liked, he had his health and he had Sam. What more could he want? 

But Sam wanted more than that. Sam had been raised differently to him. Sam’d been pushed and coaxed and cheered on since he was a baby. Sam’s parents were Stanford graduates. They were fucking millionaires, their son had expectations to fill. The only expectation Dean had ever had to fill was not ending up like his father. 

He’d always thought that none of that mattered, that he and Sam were above all that kinda shit, stupid crap like family and money and blue collar vs. white collar. He’d always thought that none of that mattered to them, it didn’t touch them, they were a partnership. Sam had always seemed to get him, to accept him, to care about him and to need him in a way that no one else ever had.

Perhaps he’d gotten it wrong. 

He pulled into a McDonalds drive-thru and ordered a Big Mac Meal and apple pie, the opposite of brain food. He drove to the mall and ate it in the parking lot, balling up the grease-stained bag and napkins and throwing them into the backseat. After a few minutes more of sitting and brooding and fiddling with the radio, he got out of the car and walked into the mall. Most of the stores were closed at this time of day, just a few hideous family restaurants still open, and of course the movie theatre. Dean paused outside and ran his eyes over the posters advertising what was showing. Well, he hadn’t seen any of the movies and he didn’t want to go back to the apartment yet, and he wasn’t in the mood for going to a bar… What the hell, some mindless comedy might be exactly what he needed right now. He bought a ticket and joined all the loud, obnoxious teenagers in line, ignoring their curious glances and suspicious stares. 

The movie sucked. The popcorn was good though, salty and buttery and exactly the way Sam liked it. He ate it all and finished up the gallon of flat, watery coke before the trailers had even finished. He sat and watched the first half of the movie desperate for a piss. Finally, he gave in and got up to go to the bathroom. He didn’t bother going back into the theatre. Instead he got back in the car and drove home. 

Sam was sitting at the dining table, books fanned out in front of him, piles of papers taking up every inch of table space. He looked up as Dean strode in, gaze hesitant and uncertain, tapping the end of his pencil against his bottom lip. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. 

Dean slanted him a look and grunted, on his way to grab a beer from the refrigerator. He leaned back against it, still in his jacket, and heard Sam get up from the table, his footsteps heavy as he followed him into the kitchen. 

“Um, Dean, I’m really sorry. I – I totally overreacted. I know that and I’m so fucking sorry. All that shit I said, I didn’t mean it. You know that, right?” 

Dean nodded thoughtfully; rim of his beer bottle resting against his lips, taking in Sam’s words and the apologetic tone in his voice. 

“Dean, please, say something, man. Just yell at me or tell me you’re hurt or you’re disappointed in me. But please look at me.” 

Of course Dean had to look up then, incapable of not responding to that pleading sound in his boyfriend’s voice. He swallowed as his eyes met Sam’s. Sam’s gaze was steady, sincere, his eyes shiny and emotional. “Dean,” Sam said again. He took a tentative step forward, then when Dean didn’t make any move to stop him, he swallowed up the distance between them. He wrapped one arm around Dean’s shoulders, pulling Dean away from the refrigerator, placing his other hand on the back of Dean’s head, clumsily patting his hair.

“So, we’re alright?” Sam asked hesitantly. 

Dean blinked, said, “Yeah, we’re alright.” 

“Good, good.” Sam exhaled in relief, smiled shakily. “I didn’t mean any of it, Dean, I just – I was mad and stressed and I–“ 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Dean cut him off. He didn’t want to hear it, he could hear the apology in Sam’s voice, see the barely held-back tears. He knew that Sam was sorry. “I told you, it’s alright, Sam. We’re alright. It was a stupid fight.” He leaned in, pressed a kiss to Sam’s mouth, felt Sam’s lips part, deepening the kiss. “You want to move this to the bedroom?” 

Sam pulled away, snickered. “Man, you’ve got such a one track mind.”

“Dude, I haven’t been laid in four days, four freakin’ days. That ain’t funny!” 

Sam smiled softly and leaned in again, pressed his lips to Dean’s. “Okay, I guess we could do something about that.” 

 

***

 

Everything went on as normal after the fight, but Dean didn’t forget the fight, didn’t forget what Sam’d said. He didn’t doubt that Sam was genuinely sorry, that he was genuinely upset about what he’d said. Not just ‘cause Sam loved him, but also because Sam was too fucking liberal, too fucking bleeding heart, too fucking politically-correct and too fucking guilt-ridden to ever look down on anyone for having a blue-collar job or not going to college, not having the kind of opportunities he took for granted, and yet.

Sam _had_ said that shit. And Dean hadn’t forgotten. Sometimes he did think about their future, sometimes he let himself imagine ten, fifteen years into the future: Sam having his high-flying lawyer career, Sam running for office, state senate or congressman or district attorney. Dean had no doubt that Sam would make it if he put his mind to it. Sam was capable of anything. He had the skills to be a great politician: intelligence, ambition, charisma, good looks. Sam was a great orator with the ability to think on his feet, always with the witty and clever riposte, and of course he was one devious little bitch when he wanted to be. Sure, he was openly gay, but this was the freaking Bay Area for fuck’s sake, the people here would get over it. 

The question wasn’t Sam and Sam’s abilities, Dean had no doubts in that quarter. The question was Dean. Could he do it? Could he support Sam all the way? Could he be some politician’s wife? Stand by Sam’s side and smile for the cameras, confront the wave of media interest an openly gay politician and his long-term partner would bring. Could he play the part of supportive partner? He would have to do that anyway, even if Sam didn’t go into politics. Even if Sam just made partner in some big law firm, Dean would still be drawn into playing that part, being Sam’s charming, well-mannered, interesting other-half, except he’d have to do it better than everyone else, because he was a guy, because he and Sam were gay. No matter what happened, when they stood beside all the regular straight couples, they would always have something to prove. Was he capable of playing that role? Of being under that kind of scrutiny? Did Sam even believe he was capable? 

He didn’t honestly know, and truthfully, it worried him. He wasn’t sure he wanted all that, but he wanted Sam and Sam came with all that. 

 

Sam got 174 on his LSAT’s in the end. With his GPA of 4.2, his various extra-curricular activities, political and community activism and glowing recommendations from his faculty advisors, Dean wasn’t surprised when he came home from work one evening and found a couple of heavy weight envelopes in their mailbox. He grinned excitedly to himself, picturing Sam’s face when he shoved them under his nose. Envelopes this thick could only mean one thing: acceptances. 

He pulled them out of the mailbox, and paused. The two thick envelopes were in stationery stamped with the Columbia and the U-Penn logos. 

Huh. So Sam had applied to schools out of state. He hadn’t known that. 

Maybe he’d been naïve to assume Sam would only apply to local law schools. Stanford was his first choice, but Stanford was ridiculously popular and it had all these rules about fulfilling diversity quotas which didn’t exactly give weighting to a super-rich white kid with super-rich parents. He knew that Sam had also applied to Berkeley, it being the next best school in the area, but Sam was desperate to get into a top ten rated law school, of course he would look outside of California. 

He brought the mail into the apartment and threw both envelopes onto the table, feeling a vague prickle of uneasiness deep in his gut. Sam had not only applied to schools out of state, but he’d applied to schools on the other side of the fucking country. What if Sam didn’t get accepted to Stanford or Berkeley? What then? He’d be stupid to turn down offers from either Columbia or U-Penn. Sam would have to move. He would leave. 

“You got some mail. I left it on the table!” he called out when he heard Sam come in. 

He walked out of the kitchen and saw the expression on Sam’s face change, nervous excitement start to edge at the corners of his face as he hung up his coat and toed off his shoes. 

Sam spared Dean a quick glance, then moved to pick up the two envelopes. “Oh, they’re – uh – they’re heavy.” 

“Yup,” said Dean carefully. He watched Sam open them, taking a couple of steps back to lean up against the kitchen doorjamb. 

“I got accepted,” Sam mumbled, his voice shaking. “They’re both acceptances.” 

Dean swallowed. “That’s great, man. Which schools?” 

Sam looked up, blinked at him, gave a nervous sort of a laugh. “Uh – U-Penn and Columbia. I didn’t – I mean, I had no idea they’d accept me.” 

“Of course they’d accept you,” Dean scoffed. “You’re amazing.” 

Sam gave him a shaky grin and shook his head. Dean watched him, feeling something constrict in his chest, his heart starting to break. 

“Well, that’s awesome news, Sammy. Congratulations.” He turned to go back into the kitchen, back to preparing dinner. 

“Dean – I – you know that I’d never go to either of these schools, unless you wanted to come too!” Sam blurted out. 

Dean hesitated, turned around again. He felt his stomach do another lurch. “Come again?” 

“I just want to go to a really good school. And obviously if Stanford says yes or Berkeley, then they’d be my first choice, so we can stay here. But if they don’t – then – then, I have to accept one of these. They’re amazing schools and the opportunities–“

“I know,” Dean said, cutting him off. “You don’t need to explain it, man. I get it. It’s okay. It’s your education, nothing’s more important than that.” 

“No, no!” Sam protested, shaking his head so furiously the ends of his hair whipped around. He dropped both envelopes onto the table and came towards him. “Nothing’s more important than you – than us. I’d only accept if you were willing to move to New York or Philadelphia or wherever with me. I can’t go anywhere without you.” 

Dean swallowed. “Okay, well, you know. I’ll do whatever you want. Doesn’t matter to me where we live.” 

“Yeah?” Sam’s entire expression changed, sudden smile bright and wide, dimples creasing into his cheeks. “Seriously?” 

“Hell, yeah. I’ve lived in New York. We could do that. Weather’s kinda shitty and rents are crazy, but there are plenty of hot guys, plenty of cool bars.” 

As he said the words he started to picture it. Him and Sam packing up the apartment, putting all their stuff into the back of the Impala and a U-haul (what would fit) and setting off on a cross country adventure. He could do that, he could definitely do that. He’d never meant to stick around in Palo Alto for so long, and he knew for sure that if he hadn’t met Sam then he would’ve moved on long ago. Sure he liked it here and he liked his job and his co-workers and the guys on the baseball team, even Stu, but he could move on. As long as he had Sam, he could pretty much live anywhere. 

Of course Sam did get his acceptance from Stanford Law School only four days later, so the question of moving never came up again. In a way, Dean was disappointed. He felt ready for a change of scenery. Sure, it was easier to stay put, to keep his job, keep his friends, but there was part of him that missed the road, missed the possibilities, the novelty of a different place on a different day. 

He was getting bored, he realized, one morning while he drove to work. There were no new challenges at the garage, his co-workers told the same bad jokes, his regulars came by with the same old car problems. But he was earning pretty good money and Sam was starting his final year of college, too many changes right now would be destabilizing. 

So the months went past as they always did. They visited their families during the winter vacation: Christmas in South Dakota, then New Year’s with Rishi and Celeste at the Sharma vacation cottage in Aspen. They went back to Palo Alto and Sam disappeared into mid-terms, studying harder than ever, a ghost in the apartment. Dean felt restless; he ran and worked out more often, mornings and evenings after work. He was still playing baseball and he got involved with coaching, joining one of the guys on his team in coaching high school kids on Thursday evenings. And still Sam barely peeked out from his books. Dean did more overtime at the garage. They didn’t need the money but there was always plenty of work. 

He came home one night in February with the seeds of an idea growing in his head. He started browsing the local real estate websites. By the time Sam came home he had a shortlist of three possibilities, plus the rough scribbled down figures for a business idea: for opening up his own garage, starting his own business.

Sam was incredibly enthusiastic. He went to check out the premises with Dean, pestering the realtors with specific lawyerly questions, and he helped Dean put together a detailed business plan. Dean had always been good with numbers, he’d frequently done the accounts for Brad during his four years working for him. He knew how much parts cost and what sort of prices would keep them competitive while still guaranteeing profits at the end of each month, it was just the legal and tax shit that had him holding his head in pain – which was where Sam came in. Sam would also come in with the money. He offered to provide the cash for the initial upfront costs from his trust fund. Technically Sam didn’t have access to the money until he turned twenty five, but Rishi and Celeste were just as taken with Dean’s entrepreneurial zeal as Sam, and provided the necessary permissions for Sam to access his money early. 

“This is of course on the proviso that you agree to a partnership?” Sam announced, looking at Dean with this wicked gleam in his eyes. 

“Partnership?” 

“The business will belong to both of us. We’ll be partners, both our names will be on the paperwork, but I’ll be a silent partner. You’ll do all the work, but I’ll insist that we hold regular partnership meetings of course.” 

“Hell, as long as you agree to hold them in bed, then I’m cool with that!” Dean answered with a grin. 

Sam laughed out loud and leaned over to kiss him. 

Things went surprisingly well. As soon as some of his regulars heard he was opening his own place, he started getting calls on his private cell, all of them worried that he wouldn’t be around anymore to fix their favorite toys. He reassured them and gave them the address of his new premises, and on his first official day of trading he already had three jobs lined up. 

Sam came by at lunchtime with a bottle of champagne, though Dean had no time to enjoy a celebratory glass, he was already behind on a couple of jobs and his damn cell phone had not stopped ringing. 

“You’re going to have to hire some people,” Sam told him. “And get a real phone line put in.” 

Dean shook his head and let out a long, exhausted breath. “Can’t you do that? Partner?” 

“Silent partner,” Sam corrected, but he grinned back at Dean, took out his own cell phone and started to call up the city provider, his tough-ass-negotiator voice turned up to eleven. He also arranged to have several job ads put in the local papers and the local jobs exchange looking for experienced mechanics. 

On the second day, Rafael stopped by, letting out a long, low whistle when he caught sight of Dean. 

“Nice place, man. But you need a sign outside. What you gonna call this place anyway?” 

Dean shrugged, a little embarrassed. He hadn’t come up with a name in time for Sam to get the paperwork filed, so Sam had just stuck _Sam and Dean’s Auto Repairs_ on the deeds, which was a fucking cheek. Though, there was some part of Dean that’d liked seeing their names together on the paperwork, all formal and serious: Dean Alexander Cooper and Samuel Anuj Cedric Surykant Sharma. 

“Uh, well, it doesn’t exactly have a name,” he hedged. “Sam put _Sam and Dean’s Auto Repairs_ on the paperwork.” 

Rafael snorted. “Man, you and that dude, so fuckin’ whipped. It ain’t the same no more, without your ass to rag on. ‘Cause you know you deserve it, man. Lettin’ that college kid put his name before yours! Jesus!” He shook his head and made himself comfortable on one of the work benches, pushing aside Dean’s box of tools, and sprawling back against the wall. 

“Whatever. You’re just jealous. And if you’re looking for a job, you should know that insulting your new boss ain’t the right way to go about it.” 

Rafael spread his hands, his face going all mock-offended. “Dean, _man_ , how many years we been workin’ together? You know what I can do. You know my ass is good for it.” 

Dean dropped his tools and came around the side of the Porsche he was working on to eye Rafael thoughtfully. 

“Okay, but I’m not messing around, Rafa. If I agree to hire you, then no slacking off. I’m serious, man. This is my business, my ass on the line. You can’t fuck around like you used to do with Brad.” 

“Hey, Dean, I swear. You got my word. S’long as you pay me a decent wage – more than that fucker Brad’s payin’ – then I’m good for it. You know I am.” 

Dean nodded, then slowly he smiled, holding out his hand. “Okay, you’re hired.” 

He spent his first free day going over the business plan he and Sam had put together, his projected cash-flow and expenses, calling up all the suppliers he knew in the area and negotiating prices on parts and supplies. He designed his own accounting system, customizing the accountancy software Sam’d installed on the new company computer. He hired a part-time receptionist named Sandra to answer the phones and deal with the paperwork, and spent her entire first day demonstrating how to use the filing and accounts system he’d put together, trying to hide his pride and pleasure when it all finally worked. 

Sam ordered stationery, a sign for outside and for the new tow truck. He’d designed the logo himself, and yes, they’d stuck with the name: _Sam and Dean’s Auto Repairs_ was going nowhere. There was no shortage of work. There were his regulars, and there were new customers. They’d swamped the local media with advertisements, put flyers in some of the dorms and administrative buildings, in some of the favorite student cafes and bars. The garage was located not far from one of dorms, and Dean found himself overrun with Stanford students with car trouble. 

Sam started law school a few months later and seemed to be busier than ever. But Dean was busy too, the business doing better than they'd expected. He hired another experienced mechanic called Fergus, and took on a teenage kid named Rico as an apprentice, a high school dropout Rafael knew by sight and whose sole good reference had come from his auto-shop teacher. He enjoyed teaching him, and the kid took to it a lot better than Sam had during the few lessons he’d tried to force on him. Still, he was a good kid underneath all the teenage bullshit, a natural with an engine, and Dean felt ridiculously proud on the day he was finally able to leave him to work unsupervised. 

 

***

 

Sam graduated Law School three years later, the summer of 2008. 

Dean sat beside Rishi and Celeste during Sam’s graduation ceremony, remembering Sam’s college graduation three years earlier (wearing the same suit as three years earlier), cheering crazily when Sam took the stage to accept his diploma from the dean. Later that evening, the school’s alumni association put on an Alumni and Graduates Charity Ball and Silent Auction with tickets priced from $400 upwards, all proceeds going to support the Law School Scholarship Fund. Rishi and Celeste had been more than happy to pay out what was pocket change for them to celebrate their only beloved son’s graduation. So all four of them attended, dressed in their best formal wear. 

Sam pulled Dean aside after the dinner ended and the swing band started playing, guiding him out of the marquee and into the beautiful college grounds. They wandered across the picture-perfect green lawns towards the shady dark-leafed trees, the scene laid out around them like something out of the Great Gatsby. Sam curled his arm tight around Dean’s neck and whispered his name, leaning against him and turning to bore into him with terrifyingly earnest (and drunken) eyes, murmuring, “This is all ‘cause of you, Dean, never would’ve done this without you. All this - this is yours, you know, all for you, Dean.” 

Dean’s stomach clenched, the air caught in his throat as he shook his head, tried to rescue Sam’s teetering glass of champagne from his boyfriend’s hand. 

“No, man, c’mon, you’re the one who did this. You worked so damn hard, Sammy. I’m so fuckin’ proud of you.” 

Sam shook his head again, eyes shiny with unshed tears, cheeks burning red with drunken sincerity as he insisted, “No, no, Dean. Means nothing without you, I’m nothing without you. You and me, man, that’s what counts. Love you so fucking much.” 

He leaned down, brought their mouths together and threw his arm with the glass dangling from his fingertips around Dean’s back, the other sliding into Dean's hair. Sam broke away and blinked, grinned dizzily and tossed his half-empty champagne glass aside, where it thunked softly onto the grass. He sank to the ground, reaching up to snag Dean’s hand and pull him down beside him. Dean went, feeling loose and buzzy with alcohol, skin tingling where Sam brushed up against him, cock starting to harden as he settled into Sam’s side. Sam threw his arm around his shoulders and tugged him sideways, the two of them sprawling onto the soft, cool grass. 

Dean rolled onto his side and fumbled his hand into Sam’s fly, the zipper catching on his watch as he squeezed and molded the familiar, hot length of Sam’s cock in his palm. He worked his fingers up and down the shaft in sharp, practiced movements, the only sounds around them the rustling of the trees, the faraway music of the swing band and Sam’s breathy pants and moans. 

Sam gasped out his name and spilled over Dean’s hand, fingers clutching convulsively at the shoulders of Dean’s dinner jacket. Dean leaned in to kiss Sam deeply and turned to wipe off his hand on the grass.

“My turn,” Sam hissed, and he swayed and clambered onto Dean, forcing him back down into the grass, fumbling with Dean’s fly. Dean stared up at the grey-dark sky, the small scattering of stars and the flashing red and white lights of an aircraft taking off from the San Francisco airport. He gasped out loud when he felt Sam’s mouth closing over the head of his cock, Sam gliding up and down his shaft with that awesome suction. He reached to tangle his fingers in Sam’s hair, his arm rising and falling as Sam slid up and down, babbling stupid, drunken words, “Mmm, Sammy, feels so good. So fuckin’ good, Sam, so fuckin’ amazing." 

Sam paused and lifted his head, looking up the length of Dean’s body to meet his gaze, eyes glittering in the dark light, reflections of the stars in his gaze. He was so gorgeous, so fucking smart and amazing, and all his, his boy. Sam smiled up at him, sloppy adoration in his bruised, shiny mouth, and Dean grinned back, stupid with love and alcohol, patting Sam's head and smoothing at his crazy hair with clumsy affection. 

Sam grinned gummily, and then ducked his head. He ran his tongue up Dean’s shaft, then down again, licking at his balls, sucking them into his mouth. Dean cried out, stomach bursting and bubbling, balls tightening and throbbing as he felt his dick start to twitch, his back arch up involuntarily as his orgasm resonated through his entire body. Sam moved quickly to suck the head back into his mouth, eagerly lapping up the come spurting from Dean’s slit. He raised his head; saw Sam turn and spit into the grass, the small pool of jizz and saliva glistening in the starlight. Sam turned his head back and caught Dean’s gaze, grinned self-consciously, running his tongue over his lips to catch up the stray drops, eyes bright and euphoric. Dean laughed out loud and sat up, pulling him into a long, deep kiss. 

“You wanna go back inside?” Dean asked when they finally broke apart. 

“Do we have to?” Sam made a face, pouting in that way that meant Dean had to lean in and suck that puffy bottom lip into his mouth. Sam groaned and rocked into him. “Don’t wanna go back, wanna stay here and fuck you.” 

“Sammy, c’mon, what about your folks, huh? They’re gonna be wondering where we are.” 

“They’ll totally guess we’ve come out here to fuck around,” Sam said. He pouted some more, and no, it wasn’t getting to Dean. It really wasn’t, despite how – how – fucking _kissable_ Sam’s mouth looked like that, slick and bruised and swollen and just – just asking for his mouth on it, his teeth to chew at it. 

He sighed and pushed Sam off him and got to his feet, not even swaying, which was pretty fucking impressive, given the blowjob and all that damn champagne. He fumbled with his zipper, buttoned his pants and tucked his shirt back in, brushing down his jacket and hoping valiantly that any grass and jizz stains wouldn’t show. He stuck out one hand, jostling Sam with the toe of his dress shoe. 

“C’mon, dude, seriously, we gotta go.” 

Sam sighed again but he let Dean pull him up and help him fasten his fly and brush down his shirt. It was all pretty useless, they both looked like they’d been fucking in the bushes. Hopefully everyone would be too drunk to notice. 

They walked back towards the marquee hand in hand, not something Dean usually allowed, and not something Sam usually asked for, but tonight was different. Tonight was special. 

“I meant everything I said before,” Sam said as the lights of the marquee blinked back into view. 

“Huh?” 

“Before, about you – all this – everything I’ve accomplished. It’d all mean nothing without you. I’m nothing without you.” Sam turned his head, looked at him, that steady, unrelenting earnestness. 

Dean swallowed, his chest swelling. “Sam, that’s not true. You would’ve done this on your own, I know you would. You’re so smart.” 

Sam shrugged. “Yeah, maybe I would. But it wouldn’t mean the same thing. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me, Dean. You’ve been there for me all the time. You’ve always had my back, always supported me and put up with my shit, and I know I’m not easy sometimes. But I’m going to make it up to you. I’m going to look after you, give you everything you want, everything you deserve. You and me, man, always gonna be you and me.” 

Dean said nothing, he couldn’t think of a response. They were almost back at the marquee. They could hear the music, smell the cigar smoke drifting over from the designated smoking area, spy the dancers through the vine-decorated entrance. He gave Sam’s hand a brief squeeze, trying to convey everything he was feeling in that small pressure. Sam squeezed back, turning to look at him one last time before he guided the two of them back into the tent.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam took the California bar exam in the February following his law school graduation. He’d been interning part time prior to the exam and taking night classes to prepare him at the same time. Sam might’ve finished college, but he was still the same crazy overachiever he’d always been. 

Sam passed the California bar exam on the first attempt, and they celebrated with a week at the Sharma vacation cottage in Aspen. It felt a little like the end of an era. When they got back to California, Sam would be starting full-time permanent work for the first time ever. No longer a student or an intern, but what Dean liked to call a productive member of society. 

They made the most of the vacation, filling the days with snowboarding and the evenings with fucking, racing each other down the slopes, making bets on the sexual orientation of the bronzed, Norse god-like instructors that swarmed the slopes during the day and the bars in the evening. 

They took one of the instructors, a blond Canadian named North, back to their room one evening. He was the same ridiculous height as Sam, with twenty extra pounds of muscle, and Dean was desperate to see Sam fuck him, to watch the two of them together. He loved to see Sam dominate with other guys, loved to watch them taking Sam’s gorgeous big cock, loved to see the expression on their faces when they realized exactly what was going to be sliding up their cute little assholes. He didn’t like to bottom himself, he did it rarely, and only with Sam and only after a few drinks or a couple of snorts of poppers. It almost always hurt, it was always uncomfortable and Sam’s cock, while a goddamn work of art, was not easy to take. 

Sam, though, Sam wasn’t picky; Sam loved sex however he could get it, and he loved being fucked by Dean. But Dean always felt better when Sammy got the chance to give the other way a go, and more selfishly, watching Sam pound some lucky dude into the mattress, hearing Sam get growly and toppy with some big butch guy was a stone-clad-bullet-proof turn on for Dean. 

He relaxed back into his chair, cock in his hand, dragging his palm lazily up and down his shaft as he watched Sam doing all the work. Sam’s hair wet with sweat, curling at the ends, one of his huge, beautiful hands resting on the guy’s impressive shoulders, pushing him down into the mattress, forcing him to take it like a little bitch, wicked glimpses of Sam’s blood-red cock as he slammed in and out of the guy’s ass teasing Dean as he got closer and closer to his own climax. 

They kicked the guy out after Sam had fucked him twice and Dean’d blown him out of politeness. The guy looked dazed, stumbling back into his ass-hugging jeans and muscle shirt, and murmuring that he was here for the rest of the season and how long would they be sticking around and would they be up for another night? 

Sam let him down, standing naked in the middle of the room with his dick swinging, condom still on from their last fuck, glass of whiskey in his hand. “Sorry, man, it was great, but we don’t do repeats.” 

Dean was on Sam two seconds after the hotel room door closed, pushing him to the mattress and climbing over him, telling him that he was too goddamn hot for his own good, and if it was okay with Sam then now – _now_ \- he was going to plow Sam’s tight, little ass until he begged for his life. 

On the last night of the vacation they ate in the resort’s fanciest, swankiest restaurant. It wasn’t Dean’s sort of thing, but it was Sam’s. This was Sam’s world, and he’d gotten accustomed to Sam’s world over the years until he didn’t bat an eyelid when they took their seats at tables with six different types of forks, four different glasses and menus that Dean could barely even read. Sam always ordered for the two of them anyway in places like this, Sam always knew what he wanted. 

“I’ve been thinking of tracing my birth parents,” Sam said between the appetizers and the fish course. 

“Oh.” Dean raised his head in surprise. “Really?” 

Sam nodded, took a sip of his wine. “Yeah. I don’t know, man, it just – it seems like the right time to do it.” 

“I thought you always said it wasn’t important, that you weren’t interested in knowing about that.” 

Sam shrugged. “I, well, I am interested. Despite myself.” He was playing with his wine glass, twisting it between his fingers, lifting one long finger to trace the rim carefully, a very Sam sort of gesture. “I’m curious, I guess. I want to know who they were, what they were like.” 

“Why they gave you up?” Dean interrupted gently. 

Sam breathed out a sigh, mouth twisting into a wry, self-deprecating shape. “Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “I know, I’m so freaking predictable. Adopted kid with a chip on my shoulder. And I shouldn’t. I mean, I was lucky to get my parents. I was really fucking lucky. But I’m still--" 

“Curious?” 

“Yeah.” 

Dean nodded. He wasn’t surprised. He’d always thought that Sam’s claim not to care about his own origins was more about self-preservation than real honesty. Sam was too much of a researcher, too inquisitive to not be interested in where he came from. Sam was the little kid at the back of the class who always wanted to know _why_ , the one who always asked questions, who was incapable of letting anything go. It was one of the things that made him such a good student and would make him a great lawyer. 

“Okay, well, you do what you have to. You know I got your back whatever.” 

“So you think I’m doing the right thing? I mean, my parents have always said they wouldn’t mind if I did trace my birth family, but I don’t want to hurt their feelings.” 

“I’m sure they’ll be okay with it. You’ll still be their son, whatever happens.” 

Sam nodded eagerly. “Yeah, yeah, totally. I mean, this is just – it’s just so I _know_. It won’t change anything.” 

 

***

 

They got back to California, and Sam started work. If either of them had thought that starting work would mean an end to Sam’s evenings of study, then both of them were proven wrong. Sam was bringing home case files every night, frequently working until one or two in the morning, just like he’d done during his studies for the bar exam, or before that for law school, or before that for the LSAT’s, or even before that, for mere college finals. It seemed to Dean that their lives would always be like this, and truthfully, neither of them knew any other way. 

Sam liked to study, he liked to work. Sam was a chronic overachiever. He was super-competitive, and now, at the firm, there were new people to compete with. There were targets to meet and billings to submit, clients to please, and partners to answer to, and Sam fit into all that perfectly. 

Dean, for the most part, was cool with it, content to be the (relatively) laid back partner to Sam’s intense, workaholic control-freak. But occasionally he’d get exasperated, sick of the late nights and the red eyes and the never seeing each other, and then they would clash, fight and scream at each other. But that was okay too, ‘cause it usually ended with awesome sex. 

A year into Sam’s new job and he gained his first promotion. They celebrated with a night out at the Castro and a hotel room, though they had to be back in Palo Alto the next day. Dean had the garage to open up and Sam had a deposition. Dean slumped at the desk in reception and cradled his pounding head in one hand as he stirred three packets of sugar into his coffee with the other, wishing he could shut up shop and that he’d never even thought about running his own business. 

His phone went after midday, Sam sounding obnoxiously healthy and not at all hung-over, boasting about winning his case, then adding that the agency had called, they’d arranged an appointment for him next week. 

“Agency?” Dean’s muddled, alcohol-pickled brain really wasn’t up to this. His brow furrowing as he tried to hear Sam over the shriek of the engines at the back of the shop. 

“Adoption agency. You know, I contacted them months ago about tracing my birth parents. It took them a while to get back to me.” 

“Oh right, yeah, course.” 

“Yeah, so, they finally managed to offer me a Saturday appointment. So, I was hoping you’d be able to come with me. It’d just be for a couple of hours, that’s it, I promise.” 

“What? Yeah, course, you know I’ll be there, man.” 

“Good.” Sam let out what sounded like a sigh of relief. “That’s – that’s good. I just. I’m not sure what to expect.” 

“Sammy, hey, hey, dude, it’ll be okay.” He softened his tone. “And listen, I promise that even if they’re axe murderers, even if your Dad was, like, a rapist, and your Mom one of those fucked-up Catholic girls who won’t abort their babies even when they’re raped. Even then, it won’t change a thing. Not between you and me.” 

There was a pause then Sam huffed out a breath. “Awesome, now you’ve given me something else to worry about.” 

Dean silently cursed himself and his stupid, slow brain, but Sam was already changing the subject, asking if Dean could pick up some groceries on the way home ‘cause he was in the mood for fajitas. 

 

***

 

Dean crossed his arms and glanced up at the clock ticking loudly on the opposite wall. Forty minutes. Sam’d been in there in forty minutes. How long did it usually take to find out about your long-lost parents? Forty minutes seemed like a long time. He got up from the seat with a sigh, pacing back towards the reception desk where the bored-looking receptionist was clicking idly on her mouse, eyes glazed as she stared at her computer screen. She glanced up as he wandered past and he spared her a brief smile of acknowledgement. She smiled back at him, giving him an obvious once-over. Oh yeah, he definitely still had it. 

He nodded at her and returned to his seat, picking up an ancient copy of Men’s Health that was lying discarded on one of the other plastic chairs. It would be fun to flirt with her. It’d been ages since he’d bothered to flirt with a chick. But Sam could be done at any moment and Sam could get really weird about him flirting with chicks. Anyway, she looked young, like, nineteen, twenty years old, which was legal, sure, but also – _Jesus_ \- more than ten years younger than him. Yeah, definitely best avoided. 

He looked up from the magazine when he heard the door at the end of the corridor open. He watched Sam emerge, a blue manila file clutched against his chest. Sam’s head was bowed, too far away for Dean to read his expression, but he could tell from the way Sam stumbled and leaned against the wall next to the door that something wasn’t right, something was seriously not good. 

He got to his feet, and strode quickly down the corridor, away from the reception area, and towards Sam. 

“Sam? Sammy?” he murmured as he approached, putting his hand on Sam’s elbow. 

Sam flinched, jerked out of his touch, slid sideways away from him, his back against the wall like it was the only thing holding him up. His face was white, not just pale, but white, his eyes shiny and red with tears, and the expression in his eyes – he looked devastated, he looked broken. 

Sam blinked and his mouth seemed to fall in on itself as he stared at Dean, his face crumpling like a melting wax dumm. He made a noise, a broken, cowering noise, something ripped from his lungs, a hopeles,s lost sound. 

“Sam? What is it? What’s wrong? Talk to me, dude, c’mon!” Dean pleaded. His heart was beating fast, sweat breaking out along his spine and under his arms, fingers twitching as he made an abortive attempt to touch Sam again. He watched helplessly as Sam cowered away from him, sliding away from Dean’s outstretched hand like Dean was something forbidden. “What did they say? I told you – I told you, it doesn't matter. It doesn't – none of it matters! I don’t give a crap if they were freakin’ axe-murderers, I don’t care if you were a rape baby. Sammy, you know I don’t give a fuck about any of that shit. You can tell me anything, man, you know that!” 

Sam stared at him dumbly and shook his head, his hair flying from where he’d smoothed it back this morning. Dean’d been brushing his teeth at the sink when Sam had shouldered him aside, smirking at him and turning to apply product in front of the bathroom mirror. Dean had elbowed him in the ribs and Sam had laughed and reached down to kiss him, getting toothpaste all over his mouth. 

Now Sam was crying openly, tears rolling down his cheeks unchecked, his face a blubbery, rubbery mess. His mouth moved silently, and he held out the file for Dean to take. Dean swallowed and took it, holding his breath as he opened the file. 

There were a few sheets of photocopied paper inside, all paper-clipped together. The top one was a form, a regular form with the kind of personal details Dean had filled out a million times. It had Sam’s full name at the top: Samuel Anuj Cedric Surykant Sharma, all of Sam’s crazy middle names, his date of adoption: 09/22/1984 and place of adoption: Santa Ana, CA, details of his adoptive parents, Rishi and Celeste’s full names, dates of birth and social security numbers. 

He turned the page. 

At first he thought he’d read it wrong, sure that his eyes were playing tricks on him, that what he was actually seeing in front of him, the black printed type, couldn’t possibly be real, couldn’t possibly true. Four lines of text. Four names. Sam and his birth family. 

Dean read them again, and again. 

No, there had to be some mistake. 

He read it again. 

_Name at time of adoption: Samuel John Winchester, DOB 05/02/1983, Lawrence, KS_

_Mother: Mary Grace Winchester, DOB: 12/05/1954, Lawrence, KS. Status: Deceased. DOD: 11/02/1983_

_Father: John Eric Winchester, DOB: 04/22/1954, Lawrence, KS. Status: Deceased. DOD: 05/05/1991._

_Known Siblings: Dean Alexander Winchester; DOB: 01/24/1979; Lawrence, KS; Sex: Male; Status: unknown._

He blinked, feeling the pages slip through his fingers. The file fell to the floor, thudding and skidding across the dull grey carpet. 

He raised his head and gaped at Sam. “No way. That – that – it ain’t fuckin’ possible!”

It wasn’t possible. It categorically wasn’t possible. 

_Known siblings: Dean Alexander Winchester; DOB: 01/24/1979; Lawrence, KS; Male; Status: unknown_

That was him. His name. Well, not his legal name right now, not since he’d had it changed when he was thirteen. But that was him. His date of birth. His place of birth. His mother and his father. 

But, a brother? Samuel John Winchester. 

That meant nothing to him. He didn’t have a brother; he’d never had a brother. 

He could remember Dad and Mom. And after the fire: Dad and Aunt Marion and Uncle Jim. 

He’d never had a brother. 

_\- Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Go, Dean, go!_

He staggered backwards, backs of his knees thumping against the plastic chairs, spilling, tumbling backwards, gripping at the edges of the seat. 

_\- Are you gonna say goodnight to Sammy, Dean? Come say goodnight to your little brother._

A brother, a baby. Sammy, baby Sammy. His brother, his baby brother, Sammy. 

_\- Do babies always look funny like that Mommy? Why is he bald? Where’s his hair? Why’s he got all this flaky stuff on his head, he should have hair like me._

He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten his brother. 

Baby Sammy, hot and heavy in his arms, weighing them down and he was sure he was going to drop him, standing on the lawn, grass freezing cold under his feet, staring up at the house, waiting for Mommy and Daddy and holding Sammy and Sammy was crying, Sammy wanted Mommy. 

_Shh, Sammy, shh, Mommy’s coming, it’s okay, Sammy, you gotta be good - ._

Long journeys in the car and Sammy didn’t like the long journeys, he cried and Daddy got mad and pulled the car over and shouted and cried and told Dean to keep baby Sammy quiet. 

Why had he forgotten? How had he forgotten? His baby brother. Baby Sammy. 

Oh God. 

He jerked forward, clutched his knees, choking, acid and bile and revulsion, his stomach daggering, swirling, clenching. 

Sam, Sammy, his Sammy, his boyfriend, his other half, his- 

He coughed, ragged, painful, scalding tears springing to his eyes. 

"Dean?”

Sam’s voice, tentative, cracked, terrified. 

This couldn’t be happening. Seriously. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t possible. This was a joke. A fucking joke. A really fucking unfunny joke. This was some douchebag’s idea of entertainment; this was that dick Ashton Kutcher. He’d always hated that sonofabitch. This wasn’t real-life. Shit like this did not happen in real life. 

He tried to breathe, cough back the acid, the bile, breakfast this morning – shit – what had he had for breakfast? Only a couple of hours ago, he’d made eggs, but Sam hadn’t wanted any, too nervous about the appointment. 

He curled his fingers around the edges of the chair, pushing, forcing himself upwards, to his feet, his trembling legs and churning gut and shaking body. 

“Sam.” He didn’t know how he found the words, but Sam had been the most used, the most familiar word in his vocabulary for eight years, it wasn’t surprising that his lips would shape that word automatically. “Sam, we gotta – c’mon. We gotta get out of here.” 

He took a step forward, his boot sliding on the fallen sheets, the paper creasing, tearing. 

He hesitated, glanced down; saw his foot, his big, solid work boot blotting out the fateful words. 

“C’mon, Sam! Now! Let’s go!” he gritted the words out, voice harsher than he’d intended. But that didn’t matter, nothing much mattered now. 

 

They didn’t speak in the car, didn’t touch. Sam didn’t slide into the passenger seat and place his big hand on Dean’s thigh. Dean didn’t turn and smile at him. Sam didn’t lean in and kiss him, long and dirty and good to be alive. 

Dean white-knuckled it for the entire journey back. All his concentration on the roads, the highways, the turnings, the traffic, the other assholes on the road. 

Sam was silent, an enormous, silent statue in the passenger seat. Maybe he was still crying, Dean didn’t know, couldn’t tell. He daren’t turn and look at Sam, didn’t want to risk seeing Sam’s face, couldn’t bear seeing that look in Sam’s eyes. 

Baby Sammy. When had he forgotten baby Sammy? Little pictures – broken tiny memories – were seeping back. Sammy’s travel seat had been behind the passenger seat, the seat that Sam was sitting in right now. Sammy’s travel seat had been there, and Dean’d sat beside Sammy, behind Dad. Dad shouting at him to keep Sammy quiet when he started to cry, and Dean had done the only thing that worked: stuck his small five year old knuckles in Sammy’s mouth and let him suck, felt the hard gums bite into his small fingers. 

How many times had Sam sucked on his fingers? How many times had he pushed his fingers into Sam’s mouth and growled at him to suck, getting them good and slimy and slick enough to push inside Sam’s ass? 

His stomach lurched, and he shuddered, adjusted his grip on the wheel, palms sliding clammy over the black plastic. 

Why hadn’t he remembered? His baby brother, and he’d forgotten, he’d entirely erased him from his memory. 

They got back to the apartment. He unlocked the door, Sam standing two paces back from him, Sam who was usually all-over him, draping his enormous arms around Dean’s shoulders, pressing his mouth into Dean’s neck, sliding his hand into Dean’s back pocket. Sam was keeping away from him like he’d taken out a restraining order. Dean entered the apartment and hesitated in the middle of the room, seeing Sam standing a couple of paces away from him, looking equally lost. 

“I’m gonna – bedroom,” Sam stuttered out, and he was stumbling, making for the bedroom and slamming the door closed, lock snapping after him. 

Dean blinked and stared at the closed bedroom door. Sam’d locked him out of the bedroom, out of _their_ bedroom. 

His stomach reeled and he ran for the toilet. 

He leaned over the bowl and heaved, gagging bile burning his throat as he coughed up broken saliva, stomach muscles clenching and cramping, sweat beading his forehead. He spat out the acid yellow bile into the toilet bowl and cradled his head on his hands. His eyes were hot, burning against his clammy palms, his hair sticky with sweat, his mouth sore. 

He didn’t know how long he sat like that, curled up against the toilet on the cold, ceramic tiles like a drunk, trying so desperately to think of nothing. For the first time in his life, he wanted to go back and change things, to go back to that night in the swanky restaurant in Aspen and say something else, to shrug and say: _“You’re right, they’re not important, you don’t need to do this.”_ Sam would’ve agreed, he’d been half-hearted about it anyway, only doing it to satisfy his own curiosity. It would’ve been easy to talk him out of it, play up the feelings of his parents, say how hurt Celeste and Rishi would be. 

But he hadn’t done that. 

And now, here they were. 

He moved slowly, creakily, onto his knees, palms flat against the cold tiles. He forced himself to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the edge of the sink. He flushed the toilet and strode resolutely towards the kitchen. 

He got the bottle of single malt, the one he’d been keeping for the past two years, down from the cupboard and placed it on the kitchen table. He didn’t need a glass. He pulled up a stool and broke the seal on the bottle, taking a generous slug, shaping his mouth around the neck. His stomach was completely empty now. It would be easy to get wasted, get completely incoherent and paralytic. And maybe when he woke up again tomorrow, when he came out of his black-out, then everything would be back to normal. All this would be over. It would just be a really weird, really fucked-up dream, and Sam would be Sam – _his_ Sam - and everything would be back to normal. 

 

***

 

“Hey, it’s me.” 

“Dean?” 

He took a long pull on the bottle, sloshing the liquid around his mouth and swallowing heavily, before he slurred, “Yeah, s’right. Me.” 

“Dean? Are you okay, honey?” 

Aunt Marion sounded concerned, that soft, worried lilt to her voice that reminded him of bed-times and cold remedies, her palm on his forehead as she brushed back his hair, her eyes dark and tender. 

He laughed bitterly, a drunken jagged slurring laugh. “No, s’not okay, never gonna be okay, not now." 

“Dean, baby, tell me what’s wrong.” He heard the background noise fade away at her end. She’d probably muted the TV, turned off one of her shows and taken a seat on the couch. She’d be changed out of her uniform by this time of day. She always showered and changed straight after coming off her shift, before she cooked dinner or heated up leftovers from the diner. 

“Is it Sam?” 

He snorted, the harsh acid burn of the whiskey through his nostrils turning it into a cough, a hacking, choking, burning cough. 

He thought about that call he’d made to her years ago. The one where he’d explained that “the gay thing” hadn’t gone away like she’d hoped, but that he’d met someone – a guy - and it was serious. She’d cried, wept down the phone line and told him that she loved him no matter what, but didn’t he realize he was setting himself up for a lifetime of heart-break? That he’d never be able to have a family, that he’d always be the butt of someone’s hatred, someone’s punch line? And if he was still attracted to girls, then couldn’t he just find a nice girl? His life would be so much easier, so much happier, if he ended up with a nice girl. 

She’d changed her mind after she’d met Sam, gotten easily charmed by the good manners or the dorky enthusiasm or the dimples or the smart conversation. Or maybe she’d just been resigned to it by then; realized that it was a losing battle. He and Sam had been together for nearly two years by the time Sam finally went back to South Dakota with him. Sam’d been so excited to meet them. He’d been pushing for years to meet Dean’s family. But Sammy had always wanted so much of him, he’d always wanted to know, to have, to _own_ , every part of Dean. 

What a fucking joke, how fucking ironic. 

“No, not Sam,” he murmured. 

“What is it, Dean? You’re worrying me, baby.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he burst out. “Why didn’t? Sammy – I didn’t remember him and he was just a baby! You should’ve told me!” 

The other end went quiet, then he heard Aunt Marion give a small sigh, her voice catching as she whispered, “Your brother?” 

“Yes! My brother! Sammy, baby Sammy. Why didn’t you tell me? I thought – I didn’t even remember him!” 

She sighed deeply and he felt a sudden stab of remorse for upsetting her like this. He could picture her now: patting her pockets for a tissue, her mascara starting to smudge. He swallowed and felt the tears spring to his own burning eyes. “What happened to baby Sammy?” 

“You didn’t remember,” she said simply. “We thought, me and Jim, John-" 

“Don’t talk to me about that bastard!” 

“Dean, sweetheart, please. Listen, we thought – all three of us – thought it was for the best. You came to us when you were five, your Dad left you with us for good when you were five. Sammy was already gone by then. John told us he’d put him up for adoption. He never told us where or how or even why, but he thought he was doing the right thing for the baby." 

“But what about me?” he choked out. “Why didn’t he put me up for adoption? Why didn’t he keep us together? We should’ve stayed together! He was my brother!” 

He trailed off, reached for the bottle, cradling one hand around the phone, the other around the bottle. He took a long pull, liquid sloshing down his throat, hot and burning and bringing him closer and closer to blessed oblivion. 

If they’d stayed together, if he’d been with baby Sammy… maybe he would’ve gotten that life too. Maybe he would’ve been raised in that enormous mansion in Newport Beach, sent to the best schools and given a trust fund. 

Why hadn’t he deserved that life? 

And if he and Sammy’d been raised together, then they would never – this would never... 

This entire fucking mess. 

“I don’t know, Dean,” she said. “I don’t know why John did what he did. He had his reasons. Maybe he gave you to us because he knew how much we wanted a child; because he could see that we loved you already. Baby, don’t ever forget that you’re the best thing that ever happened to me and Jim, and we love you so much." She broke off and he could hear the tears, picture them rolling down her soft, powdery cheeks. He blinked, felt his own eyes blur over with tears. 

“I’m sorry,” he slurred, “I’m sorry, s’not your fault.” 

“No, you’re right. We should’ve told you about Sammy. He was your brother. It was important.” 

“Why didn’t I remember?”

She sighed again and he heard her blow her nose. “I don’t know why you didn’t remember. But it’s not unusual. Children are strange with what they remember and what they don’t. We thought – we thought it was for the best. I’m so sorry, baby.” 

He kept drinking after he hung up. Steady, long pulls as he worked his way down the bottle, inch by devastating inch. He had no idea what time it was or how long he’d been drinking by the time he finally did pass out, still at the kitchen table, head pillowed on his arms, two-thirds empty bottle resting by his outstretched fingers. 

 

***

 

He woke up hours later with no idea how many hours had passed, though it felt like a lot. It was dark outside. He stumbled to the kitchen sink, downed two full pint glasses of water, then stumbled to the bathroom to throw up. 

The bedroom door was still ominously closed and he had no clue if Sam was still in there, or if Sam had left some time during the time he was passed out. Either way, he was happy not to know. He wasn’t ready to face Sam yet. 

He slumped onto the couch and fell asleep. He woke up a few hours later, bursting for a piss, so he stumbled to the bathroom again and pissed. He drank another glass of water, his head still thumping like his brains were trying to escape, and he crawled into the shower. 

He threw up in the shower, remembering all the times he and Sam had gotten each other off in here. That memorable occasion during their first week living here when they’d tried to fuck, attempting various positions and getting various bruises and scrapes until they’d given up and decided to stick with handjobs and blowjobs and leave the fucking to the bedroom, or the den, or the kitchen, hell, anyplace with conveniently placed furniture. 

“Maybe in our next place,” Sam had said with that wicked, curling grin of his. “I’ll put it on my list. Shower stall big enough for fucking.” 

His stomach heaved again, and he bent over, opening his mouth, but there was nothing left, just dregs of acidic saliva. 

He collapsed back onto the couch after he’d finished in the shower, naked except for his robe, and passed out again. 

The third time he woke up, he checked the clock on the Tivo: 8.18pm, Sunday. It was Sunday evening already, where had the weekend gone? It had been 32 hours since they’d gotten the news, since his life had fallen apart. He sat on the couch and wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now. 

He got up from the couch slowly, feeling like an old man. He was hungry, tired (ludicrous given how much he’d slept over the last two days), and his head ached. 

He heated up some tomato soup, realizing distantly that he was ravenous. The bedroom door was still closed and he glanced at it intermittently, wondering if he should go and see if Sam wanted some soup. He watched the timer on the microwave count down through blurred eyes. It pinged and he stared through the glass window for a moment at the bowl of red bubbling liquid, then he set his shoulders and walked to the bedroom. 

He hesitated outside the closed bedroom, hand outstretched to knock. It was a measure of how much things had fallen apart in the last few hours that he was even considering knocking. This was his bedroom too, and in the seven years they’d lived together, Sam had never locked the door on him, he’d never had to knock for Sam to let him in. They always left doors open, always wandered in and out of rooms the other was in, hell, Sam never even bothered to close the bathroom door when he took a shit half the time. 

Fuck it, this was his apartment too, and this was his bedroom too, and he wasn’t going to knock. He tried the doorknob, and jolted forward in surprise when it gave and the door opened. 

The room was empty. Sam was gone. 

He stared dumbly at the bed for what felt like an embarrassingly long time. It was made. In that OCD Sam way that meant tight corners and plumped pillows and crisis mode. 

No shit. 

So Sam had gotten up and gone out? There really wasn’t anywhere else he could be hiding in the apartment. He’d gone out and not left a note. When had he done that? He’d never done that before, though, Dean guessed that this situation was pretty unprecedented. There were no rules for how to behave when you found out the guy you’d been living with – dating – fucking – the guy you planned to spend the rest of your life with – was your long-lost brother. 

His stomach gave another heave and he twisted on his heels and left the room. 

His soup was still steaming when he got back to it, so he toasted and buttered some bread and ate greedily. It was oddly comforting to realize that despite the shock to his system, despite the fact his life was pretty much ruined forever, he was still capable of feeling hungry. He washed up his bowl when he was done, cleared up the mess on the sides, stashed what remained of the whiskey (not much) back in the cupboard, and went to watch the Sunday night game. 

After the game finished, he showered and brushed his teeth, thought about shaving, then decided not to. After all, he kinda rocked the stubbled look and he didn’t trust his hands not to shake. He took a valium from the stash in Sam’s nightstand, and fell into bed. 

The next day, he got up, showered, picked up some coffee and donuts, and went to work. He felt pleasantly fuzzy and numb; the after effects of the valium sticking with him as he worked on a vintage VW Beetle all morning. 

He got a text-message while he was on his lunch break. STAYING WITH ZACH. AM OK. DON’T WORRY. HOW ARE YOU?

He let out a long breath, one he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and fumbled with the keys of his phone as he texted back. FINE. GOOD TO HEAR FROM YOU. 

On Wednesday night, after drinking one and half six-packs and demolishing a Domino’s meat feast, he went through the laundry hamper until he found one of Sam’s favorite t-shirts, the one with something that looked like a freaking unicorn on it, the one that he’d always mocked Sam mercilessly for. He buried his face in the soft, gray cotton and breathed in. That night he wore it to bed. 

Sam came back on Friday night. 

The picture that greeted Sam wasn’t Dean’s best moment, and it definitely wasn’t the sort of impression Dean wanted to give his boyfriend. The impression of someone who still had it together, instead of someone who was desperately trying to keep it together but failing miserably. Sam strolled into the apartment to find Dean lying on the couch, eating chips and drinking his fifth or sixth Corona, dressed in only the stupid unicorn shirt (for the third night running) a pair of boxers and some ancient, holey socks. 

Dean froze, one hand stuffed with chips, the other cradling his beer, and stared, wide-eyed, as Sam loomed into view. 

He was a little mollified to see that Sam also didn’t look his usual ultra-together, ultra-smokin’ self. He was pale and hadn’t shaved in at least three days (Sam could never pull that look off like he could). His hair looked greasy and unkempt, and his eyes were bloodshot, like he’d just smoked a shit-load of good pot, though he hadn’t ‘cause this was Sam, and Sam didn’t do that sort of thing. 

He blinked and stared down at Dean. “You’re wearing my shirt,” he said. 

Dean shrugged and licked his lips, salty crumbs gathering on his tongue. “Yeah.” 

Sam nodded, jerking his gaze away from him, staring over Dean’s shoulder at something on the other side of the room, like he couldn’t bear to look at Dean. “I, um, I came to get some of my stuff.” 

Dean felt his stomach lurch. He swallowed and bowed his head, concentrating on putting the uneaten chips in his hand back into the bag. 

“Oh, right,” he said finally. 

“Yeah, I, um. I’m going to Atlanta. There’s this thing. At the Atlanta office.” He broke off for a second, and Dean noticed that his fingers were moving, flexing and unflexing around the apartment keys. “Remember Clayton asking me to fly out there for two weeks to audit some of their case-files?” 

He did remember. Sam’d spent an entire night bitching about it, about how unfair it was that Clayton had even asked and how much he didn’t want to do it.

“You told him no,” he said. 

“Yeah.” Sam ducked his head, his fingers still working, curl, straighten, curl, straighten. “Well, I told him yesterday that I’d changed my mind. If he still needed someone then I’d do it,” he broke off, shrugged. “I thought, given the circumstances…” he let the words trail off again, and Dean dared to look up, saw the bitter twist to Sam’s mouth. 

His chest felt hot and tight, he swallowed, said, “Sam.” 

Sam turned slowly to look at him. His eyes looked liquid, shiny. “Dean, I need to – we need to figure stuff out. And it’ll only be two weeks. It’ll give me plenty of time to think ‘cause I know it’s gonna be fucking boring.” He huffed out a laugh, bitter and jagged. Dean stared at him, watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed convulsively. He wanted so much to get up, to move over and touch Sam, pull him in close and comfort him. It just felt so – strange – to be in the same room as Sam and not to touch, to not even brush elbows or have Sam lean down and squeeze his shoulder. 

“So, you’ll come back then?” 

The words came out a lot more sharply than he’d intended, though, maybe he _had_ intended to be sharp with Sam, ‘cause it was fine for Sam to get away and think about things, but how was he supposed to think about anything? Stuck here, in this goddamn apartment – _their_ apartment – working in the garage they both owned, their joint names over the door, sleeping in their bed and seeing Sam’s face smiling down at him from all the fucking pictures Sam’d put on the walls over the years. Oh yeah, that was fair. 

“Of course I’ll come back,” Sam said. He sounded resigned, like coming back was the last thing he wanted to do. 

Dean nodded jerkily and turned his attention back to the TV. “Well, I’m not stopping you.” 

He heard Sam turn around, his footsteps heavy as he walked towards the bedroom, door closing shut behind him. 

He kept to the couch as Sam fussed around in the bedroom, packing his shit, putting his initials on everything they’d ever bought together, whatever the fuck he was doing. Dean didn’t move from his spot on the couch, though he’d finished up his beer and he was dying to get to the refrigerator to get another. But he didn’t trust himself, he knew that if he let himself get up off that couch then he might do something seriously fucking stupid like grabbing onto Sam’s legs like a toddler and begging him not to leave. Or maybe throwing him down to the bed and handcuffing him to the frame with the leather cuffs they’d gotten for their last anniversary so he couldn't leave. 

Dean only looked up from the TV when he heard Sam come out the bedroom, rolling a suitcase behind him, a duffle thrown over his shoulder. Sam was biting his lip, glancing down at Dean, then skittering his gaze away. 

Dean swallowed and cleared his throat. “I’ll guess I’ll see you around then.” 

“Yeah. It’ll just be two weeks.” 

“Right.” 

There was a long, awkward silence, then Sam set his shoulders and made an abortive, waving movement with his hand. “Um, bye then.” 

Dean nodded. He bit his lip as he watched Sam stride towards the door, rolling the suitcase behind him. “Um, Sammy?” he called out. Sam spun around, blinked at him. “Text me – you know – when you land. Let me know that you’ve gotten there okay.” 

Sam nodded, his eyes wide and shiny. “Uh, yeah, okay, sure. I’ll do that.”

“Thanks,” Dean said quietly, and he watched Sam close the door behind him. 

 

***

 

He went out the following evening. Called up Stu and asked him for a recommendation. 

“Depends what you’re looking for,” trilled Stu. 

“Gettin’ laid, gettin’ wasted.” 

Stu cackled deliciously, “Oh my God! Don’t tell me the golden couple has broken up!” 

“Fuck off, just tell me. Where can I go to get laid?” 

“Baby, like I used to tell you, with your face and your ass, you don’t need to try that hard. But are you sure you remember how it works?” 

Yeah, so Stu was an ass, but he knew his shit, which was how Dean found himself on Saturday night in the back room of _Sparkle!_ (yeah, seriously) with his cock rammed up some twenty two year old wannabe actor’s ass. He took three trips to the back room that night, feeling like he was riding on air thanks to the little pink pills Stu had slipped him in the line outside, his body buzzing and thrumming with the slamming beat of the music, his cock inexhaustibly hard as his gaze swooped over the mass of gleaming, shining flesh, searching for the next lucky asshole. 

It was six am by the time he got home, the sun starting to peek over the horizon, the exhaustion finally starting to get to him as the drugs wore off. He drank two pints of water and collapsed into bed and didn’t wake up until 6pm the following day. That evening he went out to a local college bar for pizza and beer and hooked up with a brunette Biology major with amazing tits and no gag reflex. 

He went out every night for six days, sleeping with more people in those six days than he had done since he’d met Sam. He’d forgotten how simple it was to smile at a chick or a guy, to laugh at their inane comments and compliment their looks. It was a game, a charm offensive, and for him, it was too fucking easy. He bought new packs of condoms, and got through all of them, not wanting to use the brand that Sam ordered online in bulk for them. The ones they stored under the kitchen sink, in the bathroom cabinet, in the drawer of the coffee table, in both their nightstands, in the car’s glove compartment, always available, always on hand. 

On the sixth night he fell asleep in the backseat of the car, in a rest-stop somewhere off route 101, too tired and too drunk to finish the drive home. By the time he woke up on Friday morning, it was already past eleven and there were three angry voicemails from Rafael wanting to know what the fuck was going on with him and why the fuck hadn’t he said he was having the day off? 

He called Rafael back, apologized for the no-show and explained that he’d gotten a call from his family back in South Dakota. His uncle was very sick and he needed to get back there as soon as possible, and could Rafa handle things while he was away and yeah, sure, he’d pay him double time for it. He felt vaguely bad towards Uncle Jim and Aunt Marion for using them as an excuse after he hung up, though, not bad enough to not follow through on his plans. He felt worse about missing work, about being so drunk and so fucked-up he’d missed almost an entire morning. The business was his baby, his and Sam’s baby, and he was ridiculously proud of it. This was the first time in months that he’d taken even a half-day, but he had to do this, some things were more important. 

He drove back to the apartment, packed a bag and booked himself onto the next available flight to Atlanta.


	5. Chapter 5

When he landed in Atlanta, he rented a car and called Sam’s office, asking for Lori, the AA in Sam’s department who made all the travel arrangements for Sam’s team. She was more than happy to give him the details of Sam’s hotel, cooing over how romantic it was that Dean had flown out all that way just to surprise him. 

He hung up with a grim smile and programmed the GPS in his rental to take him directly to Sam’s hotel. He booked a room, wincing as he removed his credit card from his wallet again. He’d already given it a battering today with the last-minute flight, last-minute car rental and now the not-at-all-reasonably-priced hotel room. Not to mention all the spending he’d been doing in the Bay Area’s hottest night spots over the past few days and the bottles of JD, Beam, Johnnie Walker and Maker’s Mark littering the apartment. Sam would not be happy when he did the next monthly reconciliation of their joint finances. 

If Sam ever did the monthly reconciliation of their joint finances again. 

He swallowed back the familiar lump at the back of his throat, his stomach starting to clench. Nervous butterflies fluttering as he accepted the key card from the smiling clerk. 

Considering what he’d just paid for it, the room was not that impressive. Though he guessed you had to take these sorts of kicks in the face when you booked at the last minute and you were going through the biggest crisis of your entire sorry life and the one thing – _the only thing_ – that mattered was seeing the guy who’d caused the crisis once more. 

He sat on the edge of the crappy queen size bed, and dropped his head into his hands. He felt terrible. He hadn’t eaten all day, he _couldn’t_ eat, the nerves making him itchy and jumpy. He still had no idea what he was going to say to Sam when he saw him again. 

He’d been avoiding thinking about it for over a week, letting Stu, Aunt Marion, the guys at the garage think that he and Sam had just had a fight, that Sam was in Atlanta for work (which okay, he was, technically), unwilling to confront the reality of what had happened. 

But, Jesus, how the fuck did you deal with this? What was the game plan when life threw you a curveball like this? 

The guy he’d been living with, the guy he’d been _screwing_ , for nearly eight years, the one he’d always assumed he’d spend the rest of his life with (though, he’d never actually admitted that out loud to Sam), was his long-lost brother. He and Sam had the same parents, he and Sam were related, he and Sam were brothers. 

It just didn’t compute. 

They had to break up. They had to end things. It was the only possible way this could go. Even if no one else knew, _they_ knew. He couldn’t touch Sam again. He couldn’t look at Sam in the same way, knowing that he was committing incest, that his Sam was also the baby brother he’d held in his arms while their home burned down. 

But if he ended things with Sam, then what would he do? This was _Sam_. He’d been with Sam for eight years. Sam was his only serious relationship. Sam and he were partners in the garage. Sam and he shared everything. Sam _was_ everything to him. It was the two of them against the world. He didn’t want to think about life without Sam. The idea of carrying on, of living the rest of his life without Sam, of maybe seeing Sam one horrible, future day with another guy on his arm, Sam turning to this other guy with that smile and that look that was only supposed to be for Dean. 

Sam was _his_. He’d taught Sam everything. Well, everything sex-related, though he’d thrown in some real-life lessons over the years, ‘cause let’s face it, Sammy had been pretty green when they’d first met. Sam was going to have an awesome career, he was going to be a kick-ass lawyer, he would help fight for gay rights and defend gay causes. Sam was going to change the world, and Dean wanted to be there to see him do it, to know that he helped, that his support and his belief and his love for Sam had meant something. 

He wasn’t going to let Sam go so easily. He couldn’t. 

With a sigh he pushed himself up off the bed and picked up the room phone. He dialed Sam’s cell number from memory. Sam would answer if he didn’t recognize the number. Sam might not pick up to him, but he would answer an unknown number. Sam was too curious for his own good. 

“Hello?” 

“Sam.” 

A pause, then he heard Sam swallow. “Dean? Um, wait – wait a moment, I’ll just find an empty room. Hold on, man.” 

Dean cradled the phone between his shoulder and his jaw and breathed in and out as he heard the background noise of footsteps and creaking floorboards, doors swishing and clicking open. Then finally a sharp snicking sound as another door closed. 

“Sammy? You there?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m in an empty office. Um, Dean, why are you calling?” 

“I’m in Atlanta.” 

“You’re in Atlanta?” 

“Yeah. I’m in Atlanta. I landed a couple of hours ago. I got a room at your hotel.” 

“My hotel?” 

Okay, so obviously today Sam was only capable of dumbly repeating every one of Dean’s statements. Never mind, Dean could work with that. Plain and simple sentences were a good start. 

“Yes, Sam, I’m at your hotel. I flew here this morning. I wanted to see you.” 

“Oh,” Sam breathed out. There was a long pause and Dean listened to Sam breathe some more. When Sam finally spoke again, his voice was uneven, a little cracked. “I – yeah. Okay. I want to see you too. I’ve missed you, man. I’ve been – Jesus, Dean – so fucking miserable. I - I don’t care anymore. I just wish. God, I should never have done it. I’m so fucking sorry, I fucked up everything.” 

Dean swallowed, spoke quickly, it was always good to cut Sam off when he was about to launch into one of his moments of emo. “When do you finish up? I’m in room 409 at the hotel. You should just come here.” 

“Okay,” Sam said. “I – I guess I’m almost done. I’ll be there in about 30 – 40 minutes. Is that alright?” 

“Yeah, Sammy, yeah, that’s good. Listen, I’ll see you then, okay? Just come straight up here. Room 409. Got it?” 

“Yeah, room 409. See you soon.” 

“Yeah, see you.” 

Dean replaced the receiver on the cradle and let out a long breath. Thirty or forty minutes. Okay, that was plenty of time to get ready. He stalked into the bathroom, snapped on the light and stared at himself in the mirror. 

He looked like shit. And that was probably a flattering description. He looked at least six or seven years older than his actual thirty years. Dark circles under his eyes, his skin pale and puffy and clammy, about five days stubble on his cheeks, and not the cool sexy sort of stubble that he usually went for, but the sort that screamed _I passed out in my car last night, I haven’t changed my underwear for two days, I haven’t eaten a decent meal in two weeks, I can’t remember the last time I slept without alcoholic assistance._

He peeled off his dirty, sweaty clothes and climbed into the shower. The pressure was awesome, about the only thing about this place that was awesome so far. He washed himself thoroughly, soaping his balls, cock and ass with a tingling, anticipatory feeling in his gut. He washed his hair using the complimentary bottles of shampoo and conditioner, then got out the shower, and stood at the sink to shave. When he was done, he rubbed some of the complimentary moisturizer into his skin. The skin around his eyes felt dry and papery under his fingertips, the lines around his eyes looked more prominent, and wait, was that a grey hair at his temple? He cursed and used the complimentary tweezers to pull it out, giving his reflection a valedictory smile. 

He went back into the room and applied deodorant. Standing over the trash can, he clipped his nails with the clippers from the travel kit Sam had gotten him two or three years ago and he’d never used. He then opened his suitcase and dressed in the soft faded jeans and dark blue Henley Sam had always loved. Okay, so he was done, now all he had to do was wait. 

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, mindlessly flicking through the TV channels, when someone knocked on the door. 

He leapt to his feet, swallowing anxiously and smoothing down the front of his shirt with the sort of nervousness he hadn’t felt since that first Thanksgiving when he’d met Sam’s folks. The one where he’d made a total ass of himself by gaping at Sam’s parents just ‘cause Sammy had been too damn distracted to mention he was adopted– 

Right, yeah, adopted. Well, he wasn’t going there right now. 

He opened the door. 

“Dean?” 

“Sam.” 

Jesus, Sam looked good, rumpled and work-tired in his pinstripe suit, but so fucking good. How had he managed to forget how freaking hot Sam was over the last couple of weeks? 

“Dean,” Sam repeated, and this time it was like a breath, an exhalation, and Sam was surging forward, making fists in Dean’s Henley. “Dean,” Sam said, “Dean.” 

Dean gulped and tilted his head back, meeting Sam’s eyes. Sam made a strange, choking sound and then his mouth was on Dean’s, big and wide and devouring, and Dean was sucking Sam’s tongue into his own mouth, feeling Sam’s body press up against him, hard and muscled and so strong. 

He let Sam push him back inside the room, the heavy door slamming shut behind them as Sam’s arms wound around his waist, pulling him in closer and tighter, Sam’s mouth not leaving his the entire time. 

Dean groaned and made a fist in the soft fabric of Sam’s suit jacket, bunching up the pinstripe between his fingers. His other hand slid upwards to caress the back of Sam’s neck, grabbing a handful of his silky hair. Sam was moaning and kissing him, over and over, biting and rubbing at his lips, nuzzling his lightly stubbled face against Dean’s clean-shaven cheek. 

Dean pulled away and panted for breath, his free hand going up to touch his lips, feel how bruised and sore they felt from Sam’s onslaught. He raised his eyes to Sam; Sam was staring at him, his eyes so dark the irises were faint circles. Slowly, Sam raised one of his hands, his expression going almost reverent as he cupped Dean’s cheek, brushed his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, caressing the soft, thin skin under his eyes. 

Dean let his eyes fall closed, feeling opened up under Sam’s burning, glittering gaze. He felt Sam draw close once more, his big hand carefully tipping Dean’s head back as his mouth lowered and he kissed Dean’s cheek, his closed eyelids, the line between his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his temples and jaw line, slowly and gently fluttering kisses across all of Dean’s face. 

Dean gulped and snapped his eyes open; he felt shaky, broken apart. He fumbled out with his hand, wrapped it around Sam’s silk tie, making Sam draw back and look at him, a question in his dark, lidded eyes. He swallowed and jerked his head towards the bed, hoping that the suggestion would be obvious. It _was_ obvious. Sam let him tug him towards the bed, his eyes entirely focused on Dean, as if looking away for just one second meant never seeing him again. 

They sat on the edge of the bed and took their clothes off slowly, reaching out to touch each other as each garment was tossed to the floor. Sam’s tie, his belt, his suit jacket, his white dress shirt, Dean’s shirt, his belt, his jeans, Sam’s dress pants, his undershirt, their socks… until they were sitting at the edge of the bed, dressed in just their boxer briefs, staring at each other. Sam’s gaze was rapt as his palms ran down and over Dean’s chest, around his back and down his arms, back up to his shoulders and around to his collarbone, down over his pecs and around his navel. Sam pulled away and bent over, picking up his discarded dress pants. He fumbled into the pocket and drew out a condom. He pressed it into Dean’s hand, curling Dean’s fingers around it. 

Dean watched Sam shift backwards onto the bed, pushing down his boxers as he went, his cock, big and red as it slapped against his hard, flat belly. Dean swallowed, feeling his own cock, hard enough to cut glass, as he pushed down his own underwear. He gave it a squeeze, feeling it throb under his fingers as he stared at Sam, drank in Sam’s body, sprawled out over the queen bed, taking up every inch of space as he always did. 

He licked his lips and turned to follow, on his hands and knees, his hard cock bobbing against his belly as he loomed over Sam. He watched Sam swallow, saw the ripple of his throat and he wanted to trace it with his mouth. He leaned down to kiss gently over Sam’s Adam’s apple and down across his chest, tonguing one nipple then the other, watching the gooseflesh rise under his lips, Sam’s entire body trembling underneath him. 

Sam grabbed Dean’s hand and brought it to his mouth. He sucked on Dean’s forefinger and middle finger, coating them with spit, running his tongue along the edges and around until Dean’s stomach burned and his cock throbbed, the sensation of Sam’s tongue against his skin lighting him up from inside. Sam let his hand go and bucked up, lifting his ass up from the mattress. The look in his eyes was pleading, and Dean knew this part, he was intimately familiar with this part. 

He lowered his hand, fingers coated and dripping with spit. He circled Sam’s asshole before he pushed inside with a squelchy, sucking sound. It was so warm, so hot, burning, in there, inside Sam’s body, dry and tight and barely enough room for both fingers. He slid them in and out, finding a rhythm, matching it to Sam’s short panted breaths, his moans and gasps and pleading whimpers. He felt Sam grab onto his arm, clamp his fingers around his bicep like a vice, hard enough to leave marks. 

Dean pulled his fingers out, turned to grab the lube from his suitcase, but Sam stopped him, clamped his arm harder. When Dean glanced down at him, Sam was shaking his head, lips shaping, “No”. Dean swallowed, nodded briefly, then bowed his head and rolled the condom onto his painfully hard cock. 

He could feel Sam watching him, Sam’s gaze like a brand, hot and laser-like in its intensity. He slid the condom down his dick and spat carefully into his hand, seeing the saliva pool, slimy and bubbly in the middle of his palm. He slicked up the head of his sheathed cock, and lined it up. He could feel Sam resist at first, his breathing quicken, then slowly, second by second, relax… until he was letting Dean in all the way, arching his ass up from the bed, gripping onto Dean’s biceps with both hands. 

It felt wondrous to slide into Sam again, to slot inside him like two hinges coming together, like a screw on a butterfly nut. Dean paused, heart hammering, pulse thudding, blood beating in his head. His entire body was teetering on the edge, about to explode from the inside out, white burning heat gathering inside, a bomb about to go off. He gathered himself, taking a long breath before he started to thrust, in and out of Sam, fucking him just the way Sam liked it; the slapping sound of flesh on flesh and their panted breaths the only noises in the silent room. 

They didn’t do it like this very often, dry and painful and tight. There was a reason Sam bulk ordered lube along with condoms. But this time Dean wanted to feel it, he wanted to hurt. He wanted the pain, the soreness of Sam’s almost dry flesh against his, aided only by spit and sweat. He wanted to feel everything, and Jesus, he was close, so fucking close. And so was Sam. He could tell by the fluttering of Sam’s eyelashes, the clenching of his muscles around Dean’s cock, the tight, panted moans getting higher and tighter. He jacked Sam’s cock, rough and dry. One, two, three, four pulls, and Sam was coming, his orgasm resonating through every cell in both their bodies. Sam shuddered, shook and gasped out loud as the hot strings of come gathered on Dean’s fingers. He leaned down, pushed their mouths together, tongue slipping between Sam’s lips, gasping, exhaling into Sam’s mouth as his own orgasm ripped from his body. He sighed out one last, breathless noise, and collapsed on top of Sam. 

He could feel Sam’s heart thumping through his own chest, his mouth turned against the side of Sam’s cheek, their chests and legs and arms pressed together with sticky sweat and congealing jizz. Sam’s legs were wrapped around his body, hot and hairy and itchy against his sweaty skin, Sam’s heels tapping against the globes of his ass. 

With a huge effort he raised his head, meeting Sam’s eyes, putting some air between their bodies. He smiled, euphoric and exhausted, pressed a kiss to Sam’s damp forehead, nuzzled at his sweat-drenched hair. 

“Dean,” Sam sighed. It was the first word he’d said since they’d started this. The only word he’d said since he’d knocked on Dean’s door. 

“Sammy,” he murmured back. He lifted his head again and gazed down into Sam’s eyes, his pupils were slowly retracting, the hazel color returning to his eyes. He pushed Sam’s hair back off his face, cupped his cheek. 

“Dean,” Sam repeated. “Dean, we’re – we’re brothers, Dean.” He said the words as if he was still trying to figure them out. 

Dean flinched and pulled away; making to sit up, pull his softening cock out of Sam’s ass. 

“No –“ Sam protested, reaching up and grabbing onto Dean’s arm. “No, don’t move. Not – yet.” 

Dean bit his lip and nodded. 

Sam gulped, said, “Don’t want to let you go yet.” 

“Not going anywhere,” Dean told him. “If that’s what you want.” 

Sam fluttered his eyes shut, nodded, relieved. 

He had to pull out eventually. He could feel his cock getting smaller, softer, the condom starting to slip off. He pulled out gently. His cock was throbbing, slightly sore, raw to the touch, and for a moment, he felt guilty, knowing that Sam must be hurting even more, his asshole used and tender. He removed the condom, getting up gingerly from the bed to dispose of it. This time Sam made no protest, though Dean could feel his gaze on him as he walked stiffly to the bathroom. 

He flushed the condom and turned, catching his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked used, debauched, red flush to his entire body, his chest and throat and face, white opaque strings of Sam’s come sticky and claggy on his belly. He didn’t stay and look for long, quickly turning away and gathering up the complementary face-cloth, rinsing it under the warm water. He padded back into the bedroom. Sam hadn’t moved, sprawled out on his back, arms and legs thrown wide, cock lying limp and big against the crease of his thigh. 

Dean perched on the edge of the bed and leaned over to lean Sam up, washing and wiping his belly, thighs, ass and cock with gentle, reverent movements. When he was done, he turned to go again, but Sam reached out, caught his hand. 

“No, come back here,” Sam said, tugging. 

Dean dropped the used cloth to the floor, and let Sam pull him into bed. Sam curled up against him as he always did, putting his mouth to Dean’s throat, one long leg thrown over Dean’s thigh, his thick hair brushing at Dean’s mouth and chin. Dean draped his arm around Sam’s back, running his palm up and down his soft, damp skin, an unbearable rush of tenderness and love pushing at the edges of his body, threatening to spill over. He’d missed this so much, missed the feel of Sam, the smell of him and the touch of him under his fingertips. He heard Sam breathe in and out, quiet, snuffling breaths. He felt Sam’s lips open up and press kisses to his throat and sternum, hum against his skin. 

“Sam,” he whispered. 

Sam tilted his head back and blinked at him. He looked curiously young, like the eighteen year old kid Dean’d met and fallen for eight years ago, his eyes wide and doe-like, lashes dark and wet. Dean stared at him, trying to see it: the resemblance, any traits in Sam’s face, in the slant of his eyebrows or his cheekbones, the curve of his lips or the small cleft in his chin. Any resemblance to his own face or to his faded memories of his father, to those blink-and-miss-it memories of Mom or his mythical baby brother. 

He couldn’t see it. There was nothing there. Sam was still just Sam. 

Sam’s lips parted and he smiled, slow and sad. He reached up to cup the back of Dean’s skull and murmured, “Don’t wanna talk about it now. Later, Dean. Just wanna – wanna be close to you. Missed you.” 

Dean swallowed, felt the breath catch in his lungs. He nodded, pressed his lips together. “Okay.” 

Sam smiled, his gaze getting serene, that hazy sheen to his eyes that meant he was really fucking exhausted, that he’d run his stupid ass ragged from studying every night, from not getting any sleep. Oh well, Dean felt exhausted too, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he could actually sleep. 

 

***

 

When Dean woke up, Sam was lying beside him. He was awake; Dean could tell by the way he was breathing, the way he held his body. He blinked his eyes open and stared at Sam’s face. Sam was watching him sleep, his eyes wide and soft. 

“You watching me sleep now? Creepy, dude.” 

Sam’s mouth twitched. “You know I can’t get enough of you.” 

“I know,” Dean said. He yawned and rolled onto his back, putting a few inches distance between them. “What time is it?” 

“Ten fifteen. PM,” Sam said. 

“Oh, right.” Dean blinked again, said, “Fuck, I’m hungry.” 

Sam laughed and shifted around, moving into a sitting position. Dean gave him a sideways glance; Sam was still naked, at least his chest was, the covers hid the rest. He watched Sam lean over and snatch up the room service menu from the nightstand, toss it onto Dean’s chest. “You wanna pick something? The burgers are okay; I had them the last two nights.” 

“Oh, you haven’t been out at all?” 

Sam shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Been busy, work, you know how it is.” He paused, then he turned, looked down at Dean. “Not like you.” 

“Huh?” 

Sam reached over, placed one long finger over the mark on Dean’s shoulder, a love-bite shaped mark, made by… Christ, he had no idea, any one of the many dudes or chicks he’d fucked over the past week. “You’ve been busy too,” Sam said pointedly. 

Dean made a face and batted Sam’s hand away; he sat up and picked up the menu. 

“So, you’ve been out a lot these past few days? Getting a lot of ass?” Sam asked, his tone catty and pissed. Dean should’ve expected this, should’ve known that once Sam noticed, he wouldn’t let it go. Sam had always had a jealous streak about a mile wide, not that Dean had ever really complained about his boyfriend’s possessive bitch tendencies, it was flattering, in a fucked-up way.

“Yeah,” Dean said shortly. “And don’t ask me how many, ‘cause I got no fuckin’ clue, I kinda lost count.” 

“Fuck’s sake, Dean! I hope you were careful.” 

“What! Course I was careful! You know me better than that.” 

Sam let out a harsh bark of a laugh. “Right, whatever.” 

“Sam, c’mon, man, be reasonable. You left me! You just fucked off and left me –“ 

“I’d just found out you were my long-lost brother!” Sam blurted out. “Excuse me if I freak out at that! I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t –“ 

“Neither did I!” Dean yelled. 

Sam hesitated, eyes wide, locked on Dean, unblinking. Dean licked his lips, let out a hollow laugh. “I – there’s no rulebook for this, Sammy. I thought that was it, I thought we were over. I thought you didn’t want me anymore. And I went – I kinda lost it for a while. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was drinkin’ and takin’ shit and just fuckin’ any dude or chick who looked at me twice –“ he let out a long breath, shook his head. “I was a mess without you. I _missed_ you, man. That’s why I flew out here. Don’t you get that?” 

Sam’s face fell, mouth getting loose and sloppy. Dean stared at him, watched him bow his head, run one of those enormous hands through his hair. “I don’t know what to do,” Sam admitted in a soft broken voice. He raised his head and Dean saw the tears in his eyes, the wetness spilling over, running down his cheeks. “Tell me what to do, Dean. What do we do?” 

Dean swallowed, trying to find his voice, make it strong, sure, give Sam what he needed. “We carry on.” 

“But you and me – we’re brothers. It would be – it’s wrong, it’s _incest_.” 

Dean flinched at the sound of that word, but he swallowed it back, shrugged awkwardly. “Sam, we’ve been doing it for years,” he said finally, trying to make his voice sound as firm and reassuring as possible. It was the truth after all; they had been doing it for years. The two of them had had a helluva lot of sex over the past eight years, and they were both still standing, no fire-bolts had been sent down just yet to raze their sinful asses from the earth. 

“We didn’t know! It wasn’t – that wasn’t our fault!” Sam protested. 

“We know now and still – just then – we couldn’t help ourselves, man. Soon as we saw each other –“ he trailed off, blowing out a breath, a half-hearted chuckle. 

Sam’s face was guarded, his body tense. He blinked, catching Dean’s eyes, and shook his head, confusion darkening his expression. “Dean, I don’t –“ 

“You’re not my brother,” Dean insisted, talking over Sam, cutting off his protests. “You don’t feel like my brother. You’re Sam, you’re my boyfriend, my better half, whatever. You’ve always been that.” 

“But, Dean –“ 

“But, what? Tell me, be honest, man. Do I feel like your brother? Does it feel wrong when I touch you or when I do this?” He moved his hand to cradle Sam’s face, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips, feel the moist clammy warmth of Sam’s skin under his mouth. Sam gave in almost immediately, sighing and parting his lips, letting Dean’s tongue in, deepening and lengthening the kiss, until Sam was dragging one hand up into Dean’s hair, turning the kiss into one of their usual sloppy breathless kisses. 

Dean pulled away and gasped for breath, stared at Sam’s flushed, glittering eyes, his bruised parted lips. 

“Sammy, does that feel like you’re kissing your brother?” 

Sam’s lip twitched, his mouth quirking sheepishly. “I’ve never had a brother, but I – I don’t reckon it would feel like that if I kissed him. But, Dean, I still –“ 

Dean shook his head exasperatedly. “But what, Sam? What do you want? What’s the alternative here, man? That we just break up? Decide to go our separate ways and never see each other again? Do you want that?” 

“God, no!” Sam said helplessly. 

Dean tilted Sam’s head back, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Well, then,” he said simply. He smiled, going for his most reassuring disarming grin, the one that had so charmed Sam back when they’d first met. 

Sam exhaled and smiled back at him, soft at first then slowly getting bigger – that goddamn beautiful grin of his. “Okay, okay, Dean. We can do this, right? You and me?” 

“We can do this,” Dean repeated, feeling the certainty in the words as he spoke. They had to do this – the alternative just wasn’t on the table, it wasn’t anywhere near the goddamn table. “C’mere,” he murmured, pulling Sam in, pushing him back down into the mattress. “We got some time to make up for.” 

 

***

 

The following day was Saturday, and Sam didn’t have to work, so they decided to get up early, do the tourist thing, check out the city of Atlanta. Dean went down to the lobby to check out of his room, moving all his shit into Sam’s room and leaving an extra big tip for the poor maid who would have to deal with the used condoms, dirty tissues, sheets and well-fucked bed they’d left behind them. 

Sam’s room was in as almost a bad state, papers and books and files on the bed, dresser, desk and floor, evidence that Sam really had been working every single hour he wasn’t asleep since he’d gotten there. At least the bed was made, the bathroom cleaned and there were clean towels. 

They went to the World of Coca Cola because it was Atlanta. It was the thing to do and Dean was genuinely interested in the history of the world’s conquering brand, plus the opportunity to taste every variety of his favorite soft drink was too exciting to miss. They took their time going through the exhibits, reading about the social history that surrounded the invention, distribution and later world-domination of the Coca Cola Company. They lingered through the tasting area where Dean insisted on tasting every single variety on offer while Sam bitched and whined about Dean having “taste buds like a freaking six year old” and wandered off to wait for him in one of the cafes. 

Dean made it up to him by buying him one of those old branded yoyos he could remember playing with when he was a kid, and a baseball cap. 

“Something to tame that ass-rag hair of yours,” he said when he tossed the cap at Sam. 

Sam fumbled and dropped it onto the table next to his cup of coffee (dude could never have made a good catcher, which was fucking ironic). He smiled up at Dean, and asked if Dean wanted a Coke from the café or was he ready to move onto the aquarium? 

“I don’t think I could drink another freakin’ Coke in my entire life,” Dean groaned. “My teeth feel like they’re about to fall out.” 

Sam laughed and got up from the table, jamming the baseball cap onto his head as he said, “Serves you right. So, aquarium now?” 

Dean groaned and agreed, but it was all for show. He was secretly pretty psyched about the aquarium, and anyway, anything that made Sam grin like that was worth doing as far as he was concerned. 

The aquarium was heaving with people, tourists and locals, mainly families with young kids and their harassed looking parents, all of them jostling to get a prime spot in front of the huge water tanks. Dean hung back with Sam, the two of them loomed over almost everyone else (Sam especially, the Sasquatch) so really, it was the polite thing to do. He took a seat towards the back of one of the rooms, letting Sam wander off and stare into the tanks, read all the information notices and follow the guidebook he’d insisted on shelling out $15 for at the entrance. Dean stretched out his legs and watched the families skipping past, the excited kids and exasperated parents calling out to them. 

He found himself wondering what his own childhood would’ve been like if he and Sam had grown up together. Would he have been happier, less lonely if he’d had his own little brother to play with and torment? At the time, when he was growing up, he hadn’t really felt lonely. He’d had baseball friends, girlfriends, kids he did school projects with. He’d gotten on with everybody, he’d always been sociable, always found it easy to find something to say, to find some way of interacting with people. Even when he’d begun to figure out that he was bisexual, that he was attracted to guys as well as girls, he’d been able to hide it well enough to continue being accepted, to keep blending in. Until the end of senior year of course, until he’d broken up with Liza Dumont, and Scott Thompson had started spreading all the rumors. 

In retrospect, looking back on that period now, with the benefit of hindsight and all that, he could see that he’d been a pretty lonely kid. He’d never had any close friends, never had a best friend or a BFF or whatever the acceptable male equivalent was. He’d never had anyone to share secrets with or talk about how he felt about shit with, though, he was pretty sure that teenage boys didn’t do that (whatever Sam said). Even after he’d left South Dakota, when he’d cut and run and just kept moving, he never got close to anybody, passing through places, hooking up with girls and guys, never making a real connection, never really letting anyone in. 

Until Sam, of course. 

Aunt Marion had said it once, during one of his and Sam’s visits to South Dakota. “It’s funny, you and Sam. I wouldn’t have chosen it for you, honey, and I’m still – I still worry about you – being gay. But now, seeing the two of you together, you’re like a different person. You seem so much happier, baby. We used to worry about you so much. You were such an independent little boy, you never let anyone in, you never let anyone get close to you. I guess you were just waiting for the right person.” 

He licked his lips, stared across the groups of people, the dark rippling lights from the aquariums playing over everyone’s faces, making them look eerie and fascinating. It was easy to spot Sam, at least a head taller than everyone else, leaning up against one of the less popular tanks, his big hand pressed against the glass, every ounce of concentration on the fish inside. Sam loved fish, he’d told Dean once that he’d thought about studying oceanography before he’d become obsessed with law. But Sam’d grown up by the ocean, had gotten up every morning to be greeted by the sight of the Pacific through his bedroom window. Sam’d had a happy childhood, though in many ways, he’d been like Dean, an outsider, no real close friends, no one who’d truly gotten him – he’d told Dean that himself. 

Dean got to his feet, making his way through the crowds of kids, to Sam’s side. He placed his hand on the Sam’s back; Sam turned his head and smiled at him, the reflection of the tank, the swirling blue light, casting an otherworldly glow over his skin, emphasizing the slight animalistic slant of his eyes, the dark inky strands of hair as it fell across his forehead, the cut of his cheekbones and that generous wide mouth. He looked ethereal, mysterious and really fucking gorgeous, reminding Dean with a lurch of that moment on their first date, how he’d looked under that street light before Dean’d kissed him for the first time. 

“Hey, you’re getting bored, aren’t you?” 

Dean shook his head, finding his voice again. “Nah, no, s’cool, but where’re the sharks, Sammy? I thought you promised me some sharks.” 

Sam laughed. “Yeah, okay, let’s go find the sharks.” 

They went back to the hotel again to freshen up before going out in the evening, and Sam hit up a few websites to find recommendations for gay friendly restaurants and bars. 

“It’s depressing me that you haven’t already done this,” Dean commented as he flicked through the channels on the TV, sprawled back against the headboard. He glanced down at the laptop on Sam’s knees beside him. “Hey, how about that place, that guy looks cute.” 

Sam batted his hand away with a glare. “What do I tell you about backseat surfing?” 

“That it’s annoying?” 

“Yeah. Anyway, like I said before, I’ve been working, every night.” 

“You’ve been missing out. S’fuckin’ Atlanta, man. Supposed to have one of the largest gay populations in the country.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m not an enormous slut like you,” Sam muttered. 

Dean sighed and turned the TV to the ESPN revolving news; there was seriously nothing else worth watching. “Look, I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. But you were gone, and I didn’t know what the fuck was going on between us. I just – I lost it for a week. It was like my lost weekend. But I’m here now. And we’re okay, aren’t we? Sam, we’re okay, right?” 

He saw Sam’s fingers hesitate on his keyboard, saw him blink, the swoop of his eyelashes, black feathery shape against the hollows of his face. Sam raised his eyes, swallowed as he looked at Dean. “Yeah, we’re okay.” 

Dean exhaled in relief, nodding to himself. “Good, good. You know, man, I had a great time today. You and me, just hangin’ out. We don’t do that kinda shit enough.” 

“Yeah, you’re right, we don’t.” 

“I’m always right.” 

Sam huffed out a breath, his mouth twitching into a smile. “Of course you are.” 

“Exactly. So how about you put that thing away and show me some love?” 

Sam snorted, rolling his eyes as he closed the laptop and turned to place it on the nightstand. “’Cause I haven’t already shown you enough love?” 

“No such thing as enough.” 

They didn’t make it out in the end. After round whatever it was (Dean was beginning to lose count), going out seemed pointless. Instead they called for room service, more burgers and beers ‘cause they had to keep their strength up and Sam was billing the lot to his work expense account. They sprawled across the bed, tangled in the dirty sheets, naked and sweaty and aching, and still unable to keep their hands off each other. 

“I have to keep touching you,” Sam murmured, rolling onto his front and burying his face into Dean’s side, his lips against Dean’s ribs. “God, you smell so good. It’s like a compulsion, Dean. I think I’m seriously addicted to you. I can’t stop touching you.” 

“Mmm, Sammy,” groaned Dean, he wasn’t sure he could string words together by this point. He placed one hand on Sam’s hair, twisting his fingers in the thick dark strands, guiding Sam’s head down lower. “Go on, suck me off.” 

Sam tilted his head back, stared at him through heavy lidded eyes, lips bruised and pink. “Okay.” 

 

They flew back to California on Tuesday evening, the late flight. It was pretty quiet and Sam piled up the seat on his right with his briefcase and laptop, that absorbed study-licious look creeping over his face as he opened his briefcase and took out several dense and incredibly boring looking documents. 

“Seriously? You gonna work for the entire flight?” 

Sam sighed and fumbled about in his briefcase, locating his iPod and tossing it into Dean’s lap. “There you go, entertain yourself.” 

Dean looked down at the iPod, then looked at Sam. “No freaking way I’m listening to your music.” 

Sam sighed again and reached for the iPod. He switched it on and started scrolling and pressing some of the annoying fiddly little buttons. “Here,” he said shortly, handing it back to Dean. 

Dean frowned and glanced at the screen: DEAN’S PLAYLIST. He highlighted it and scrolled through the tracks: Sabbath, Priest, ACDC, Zeppelin, Stones. Well, okay then. 

He lifted his head and grinned at Sam. 

“I know, I’m awesome,” Sam said, his mouth doing that twitching thing that meant he was trying not to smile. “Now shut up and let me work.”


	6. Chapter 6

And everything went back to normal. Work and working out, running in the mornings and sex in the evenings, baseball on Sundays and coaching the kids on Thursday nights, reconciling the weekly accounts for the garage and meetings with the accountants. Sam buried himself in work, taking home briefcases of case files every night, burning the midnight oil and falling into bed beside Dean around 2am, waking him up with soft kisses across his neck and shoulders until Dean was awake and hard and pushing Sam’s head under the covers to finish him off. 

The weeks slipped by, the months went past even quicker, and their lives were normal, boring even, like nothing had happened, like nothing had changed between them. Life – real life – was relentless, sweeping them up along with it, and Sam was too busy worrying about deadlines and promotions while Dean fretted about safety code violations and being able to provide the right sort of health insurance for his employees. It was more important than ever now to be a good guy: to coach the at-risk youth at baseball and to give apprenticeships to the high school drop-outs that no one else would employ, to make sure his employees were well looked after and to donate to charity, because behind all of those good deeds, behind the good-guy façade was a guy who lived in incestuous sin with his younger brother, and Dean’d spent enough time in his Aunt’s church back in South Dakota to know he was a sinner. 

Except they never talked about it. They never spoke about the big gay incest-shaped elephant in the room. 

Sometimes he’d find himself watching Sam, (not that that was anything unusual, he’d always been fascinated by Sam, Sam was the only thing he could watch for hours and hours and never get bored with). But these times when he watched Sam, it was because he wanted to see it – the resemblance, the shared genetic traits – the whatever it was that was supposed to flash full and bright in his face: _brother, my brother, family._

But he couldn’t see it. Okay, so there was the way Sam had of chewing his lip when he was nervous that was exactly the same as the way Dean chewed his own lip when he was nervous, and there was how Sam had a habit of completing his sentences (and his sandwiches). Or how, despite his crazy high IQ, Sam had exactly the same moronic sense of humor he did. Or just how fucking good Sam was at reading him, always knowing whether Dean was in the mood for a beer or a cup of coffee or a blowjob, though admittedly, when it came to those three things, Dean was a quick study, the answers being: usually after work, mornings only, and always. 

But how much of that stuff was down to genetics and how much of it was just down to boring old familiarity? All those years – nine years now – _Jesus, nine years_ – spent in each other’s personal space. They’d grown up together, they’d come of age together, they knew each other intimately. Dean had always felt more at home with Sam than with any other person in his entire life, despite their different backgrounds and life experiences. 

And the sex… oh boy, the sex… Right from the start, from the first moment he’d kissed Sam, it’d felt like something else, something entirely different, this uncanny and extraordinary sexual compatibility. And sure that raised some questions now – questions that he was really not prepared to examine – but the fundamental thing, the only thing that mattered was that he wasn’t giving up on Sam. He wasn’t giving up on them. 

 

***

 

For Thanksgiving that year, Sam took a week off work, the first real vacation he’d taken since joining the firm almost three years ago. They drove to South Dakota to celebrate the holiday with Dean’s family. Sam’s family too now – the thought fluttering across Dean’s mind as he loaded up the trunk of the Impala with their suitcases and duffels. Aunt Marion and Uncle Jim were Sam’s family too, related by blood to Sam, because John Winchester – Dean’s own father – was also Sam’s father. The thought froze him in place, reeling like he’d been punched in the gut, one hand clutching onto the open lid of the trunk. 

“Hey, you ready, man?” He jumped at the sound of Sam’s voice, Sam’s hand on his shoulder. He jerked his arm out of Sam’s grasp, slamming down the trunk and standing with his hands splayed across the cool black metal. 

“Dean? You okay?” Sam sounded concerned, hovering over him, hand coming out again to squeeze his shoulder. 

Dean resisted the urge to flinch again, forced himself to turn around, look up at Sam. “Yeah, yeah, course. You ready?” 

Sam nodded. “Yup, definitely ready to go, everything’s packed up, Tivo’s set and my Blackberry’s switched off and locked in the bathroom cabinet. Man, it feels weird to be without it, weird but good.” He grinned widely, leaning in to jostle Dean’s elbow. 

“Dude, seriously? You’re not taking your Blackberry? You?” Dean raised one disbelieving eyebrow. “Sam, you’ve had that thing surgically attached to your ear ever since you got it.” 

Sam snorted, rolled his eyes at him. “Dean, stop exaggerating. I told you I was taking the week off, and I’m taking the week off. They’re going to have to deal with it.” 

Dean looked at him for a moment, then shook his head, mouth twitching up into a smile. “Okay then.” 

“Okay then,” Sam repeated and he leaned in, wicked grin sliding across his face as he groped Dean’s ass. “Now, c’mon, sweet cheeks, let’s get this show on the road!”

They took their time, a leisurely three day cross-country drive, checking into roadside motels, and stopping whenever they felt like it, to take in the scenery, or more often, to take in each other. Dean felt himself relax, his heart start to swell as he jammed his foot on the gas and watched the needle slide up to 80, 90mph, slicing through the endless deserted expanses of Nevada or Utah or Wyoming. God, it felt so good to get away from the usual Palo Alto traffic, no one else for miles and miles, just the two of them, the car, and the open road. 

They wound down the windows and turned up the music and let the wind whip up a storm inside, the empty packets of chips and Gummi bears flying about the backseat, Sam’s hair rough and wild, his eyes dark and bright. Sam sprawled out further, one foot on the dash, one hand on Dean’s thigh, and tipped back his head and let out a whoop, fingers sinking into Dean’s thigh, Dean’s cock starting to thicken in his pants. It felt like the early days, like those trips they used to take when Sam was just eighteen, nineteen years old, and the two of them had their weekends to themselves, a painful nostalgia for those days when they were ignorant and free and totally crazy about each other. 

He flicked a glance at Sam, his heart overflowing as Sam caught his eye, giving him that dazzling grin that hadn’t changed one jot from that wide-eyed geeky eighteen year old kid. Dean still loved him, probably more now than ever; they were still crazy about each other. It was a relief to realize that, fundamentally, nothing had changed. 

They got to Branston on the afternoon of the third day, pulling the Impala up alongside Aunt Marion’s ancient minivan. She came out on the porch to greet them, wearing a dress and pantyhose, make-up on her face and her dyed brown hair in an up-do, dressed in her best and looking as if she’d been waiting for them for hours. It made Dean’s chest ache to picture her getting ready for their arrival, discarding her usual sweats and thrift store t-shirts in an effort to look good for her boy and his boyfriend, the millionaire’s son. 

He bounded up the steps and pulled her into his arms, lifting her up off the floor as she laughed and called out his name and cried at him to: “Put me down!” 

He deposited her back on her feet and bent to kiss her cheek gently, let her hand linger as she ran it over the back of his head, smoothing down his hair, just as she used to do when he was a kid and they were getting ready for church on Sunday mornings. 

“It’s good to see you, sweetheart,” she murmured, and when he pulled back to look at her, he saw tears in her eyes. 

He exchanged a quick glance with Sam, who had just joined them on the porch, carrying a couple of duffels slung over his shoulder. He watched Sam lean in, give her a welcome kiss, as she exclaimed over his height, over how big he was, how handsome. 

They followed her inside and Dean felt that painful twinge in his chest again as his eyes took in the house, how little everything had changed, from the worn carpet in the den to the exact same pictures on the walls: the hideous cat diorama and the creepy watercolor of Lake Tahoe that’d given him nightmares when he was a kid. Not to mention the twenty hundred pictures of him throughout the years, marking his progress from a serious but wary looking six year old through to a punk-ass looking twelve year old back to a serious but jailbaity eighteen year old. There were even recent pictures, ones that included Sam: him and Sam at Sam’s law school graduation, Sam in his graduation gown and Dean in his best suit, and another of him and Sam from Christmas a couple of years ago, standing by the tree, holding plastic tumblers of eggnog. 

“You’re in your usual room, boys!” Aunt Marion called out as they deposited their bags on the porch. 

Their usual room was Dean’s room, though technically, it hadn’t been his room for a while. They’d changed it into a guest room a few years after he’d moved out, once Aunt Marion had realized he wasn’t coming back. Although, apart from swapping his old twin bed for a double, it hadn’t changed all that much; his baseball trophies were still lined up on the bookcase, his high school graduation picture and his baseball team photo framed and hanging on the walls. 

“Man, you were such a twink,” Sam said with a smirk as he eyed the graduation picture. “A really fuckable twink, though. I totally, totally would. Even now. Hey, does that make me a perv?”

“Yes,” Dean said.

“Meh, whatever, I was the same age as you were here when you first slept with me, and you definitely didn’t seem to mind.” 

“Yeah, well, I _am_ a perv.” 

Sam laughed and slapped his ass as they left the room. 

Dinner was pork chops and it was freaking delicious, followed by peach cobbler for dessert, made by Rachel from the diner who’d heard that Dean “and his boyfriend” were visiting. Dean could remember having a crush on her when he was ten years old, born out of too many hours spent waiting at the diner for Aunt Marion to finish her shift, and the stocking tops that used to peek out occasionally from under the short skirted uniforms Rachel used to favor. In fact, she had the dubious honor of being the object of his very first jerk-off fantasy. As he helped himself to the (freaking delicious) peach cobbler, he made a note to tell Sam about it later that evening. Sam always enjoyed hearing about his early sexual misadventures, the dirty slut. 

“You don’t get food like this in California,” said Uncle Jim after they’d devoured their second helpings of cobbler. 

Actually, you did get food like this in California, if you knew the right places to look for it. But Dean wasn’t going to argue with his uncle’s belligerent attitude towards the sunshine state, so he grinned and agreed with him. “You sure don’t.” 

They sat up late over dinner once the dishes had been cleared away, drinking the strong dark ale Uncle Jim favored and shooting the shit. Uncle Jim and Aunt Marion giving him all the news and gossip about the townsfolk, about what some of his old high school classmates were up to. Then it was their turn, and Dean boasted about the business, about how well they were doing, the money they were making, and Sam told stories about his work, about a couple of cases he’d won, while they listened hard with bemused but intent expressions. 

Aunt Marion and Uncle Jim went to bed early. They’d always been early risers and Dean had spent most of his teenage years being the last one to go to bed, staying up to watch late night TV in the den, ‘cause he’d never been allowed a TV in his room. He and Sam moved to the den, taking more beers with them, stumbling and giggling as they tried to get comfortable on the same saggy couch on which Dean’d spent so many of his teenage years watching reruns of Mystery Science Theatre and Twilight Zone. 

When Dean got up a couple of hours later to ditch their empties, he felt a little unsteady on his feet, weaving as he made his way to the kitchen. He hadn’t drunk that much of Uncle Jim’s beer for years, and his tolerance was obviously fucked. When he got back to the den, he found Sam standing in front of one of the many framed pictures on the wall, his huge hand cradling his half-drunk bottle, gazing at the picture with customary Sam absorption. 

Dean turned to look at what Sam seemed to find so fascinating and his stomach fluttered uneasily when he saw the old photograph of himself around seven, eight years old in his pee wee baseball uniform, standing next to his father who was holding a baseball mitt and smiling genially for the camera. 

“He’s, um, your dad -” Sam said, his voice trailing off, hesitant and slurred. 

Dean glanced from the photo to Sam, then back again. He gulped, the after-taste of strong beer burning at his throat, dread gathering nauseous and torrid in his gut. 

Sam turned his head to look at him, a strange expression on his face, his eyes glazed and cheeks flushed. Dean watched him swallow, traced the ripple of his throat, the pained crease around his eyes. “Don’t you think – him and me – around the eyes? The jaw-line? We’ve got the same coloring too.” 

Oh God. Oh God. He so didn’t want to think about this. It was unbelievable how much he didn’t want to think about this. 

“I never looked like my own parents,” Sam continued, that same confused and pained tone in his voice. “I mean they’re great and everything and I love them, and I wouldn’t change a thing, I’m lucky, I know that. But I was – I am – I’m different to them. I look nothing like them – I never did.” He swallowed, a hitch in his throat as he opened his mouth to continue. “I look like him, Dean.” 

Sam bowed his head, and Dean raised his hand, letting it hover over Sam’s shoulder, hesitant and unsure. Sam let out a sigh, a hitching breath and he lifted his head again. Dean snatched back his hand; let it dangle by his hip. 

“Do you have any more pictures?”

Dean nodded tightly, licked his lips. “Uh, yeah, yeah. We’ve got photo albums, man. You know that, loads of pictures.” 

“Could I – I mean, I’d like to look.” 

Oh God, this was – he didn’t want to do this. “Sam, I don’t think –“ 

“Please, Dean.” Sam was pleading with him; he knew that tone of voice. “Just – just for now. Just this one time, and we’ll never need to think about it again, just for tonight.” 

Dean turned around, not looking at Sam. He knelt down on the carpet in front of the oak dresser and heaved a couple of the old dusty photo albums out of the left-hand cupboard, stacking them up in his arms. He got to his feet and held them out to Sam. “Here,” he said flatly. 

Sam hesitated for a second, then came forward to take them from him. Dean dusted off his clothes and sank back down onto the couch, turning his attention back to the TV. He didn’t want to join Sam in his – his investigation – whatever it was that Sam was doing, fucking – fucking _torturing_ himself, letting all this shit out again, all this shit that they didn’t fucking talk about. There were fucking rules, damn it, admittedly unspoken and unwritten rules, but they were still there, and trying to find long-ago family resemblances were not part of it. 

He sat, so tense he could practically feel his muscles cramping, staring blankly at the TV screen, taking long pulls on his beer. He could hear the sound of Sam flicking through the pages of the photo album, see Sam from the corner of his eye at the other end of the couch, album open on his knees, old Kodak moments passing before his eyes. Sam’d seen a lot of those pictures before. The very first time they’d visited Aunt Marion had gotten the albums out, exclaiming over what a great son Dean’d been, naughty occasionally, like all young boys were, and not very good at doing his homework on time, but so thoughtful, so handsome and so athletic, how proud she’d always been of him. 

Sam had fucking lapped it up – of course he had. Sam was such a fucking girl about shit like that, and maybe that more than anything else had endeared him so thoroughly to Aunt Marion, helped her come to terms with their relationship. 

Sam cleared his throat and Dean jumped, jerked his head Sam’s way. Sam was looking over at him, the album lying on his knees, open on another picture of his father – _their father._

“What was he like?” Sam asked. 

Dean licked his lips, huffed out a bitter sort of a laugh. “He was a drunk. He – uh – he wasn’t a good father. Believe me; you got the better end of the deal.” 

“Oh,” Sam’s voice was quiet, the syllable drawn out, and Dean felt a sudden surge of guilt. Maybe he was being too harsh, putting all his own issues, his own bitter memories of his father onto Sam, but Sam needed to know the truth, not one of Aunt Marion’s rose-tinted versions. Sam needed to know that he didn’t miss out on knowing the real John Winchester. 

“Why do you think he did it?” Sam asked after another long pause. He shut the album, turned his wide unblinking gaze on Dean. “Why’d he give me away and not you?” 

“He did give me away,” said Dean. “He gave me to Aunt Marion and Uncle Jim.” 

“But he still visited you, he came back to see you all the time! He just – he gave me up, Dean. It’s not the same thing.” 

Dean blinked, the ache in his chest deepening at the desolate tone, the hitch in his boyfriend’s voice. Sam _did_ get the better deal. Sam got the doting parents and loving family, the trust-fund and affluent lifestyle. But Sam got more than that; Sam got to create a new life from scratch, without any hangover memories of his dead mother or his grieving father. Sam never grew up with the knowledge that he was a disappointment to his father, that he was only good enough to be palmed off onto some childless relatives, a convenient solution to their fertility problems and John’s inability to raise a family without his beloved wife. Sure, his aunt and uncle had doted on him, had loved him and cared for him and done their best to make up for his father, and Dean loved them back, considered them his true family, he’d changed his name to become their true family. But even so, there was still that part of him that knew – that would always know – that he wasn’t good enough for his real dad. 

“I know,” he said. “I know, man, and I don’t know. I don’t know why he did it. He was –“ 

_Complicated,_ he could hear Aunt Marion saying. _Your father’s a complicated man, Dean; he has a lot of demons. It’s our job to forgive him, to understand him and offer support. He does love you, honey; don’t ever believe that he doesn’t love you._

He hadn’t believed her at the time and he still didn’t believe it now. 

“He was difficult. I don’t know, complicated, that’s what Aunt Marion used to say.” 

Sam snorted, dropped the album to the floor with a heavy thunk. “Right, complicated.” 

Dean shrugged. “Yeah.” He licked his lips; cast a quick glance at Sam. “Hey, c’mere.” He reached out, snagging a handful of Sam’s sweater in his fingers, tugging him closer. Sam shifted obediently, scooting along the worn cushions until they were touching, shoulder to thigh, bodylines melding into one. Dean put his arm around Sam’s shoulders, pulled him in, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Listen, you should know that I –“ he paused, took a breath, “I didn’t tell you this before, but I do remember you.” 

Immediately Sam jerked away from him, turning to stare at him in disbelief. “What? But you – you always said that you never had a brother!” 

“Yeah, and I didn’t think I did. I mean, I didn’t remember you; I had no memories at all of having a brother. But on the day that you – that we found out, I started remembering again. It, like, it just all came back to me, like, in this big crazy rush and I started remembering all this shit that I’d completely forgotten, stuff that I’d just repressed or erased or whatever. I don’t fuckin’ know, but some things – like, little things just came back.” He paused for breath, scrutinizing Sam’s face for his reaction. “Sam, I promise, it wasn’t like I was keepin’ anything from you. I _did_ forget. And afterwards, well, I – I didn’t want to think about it.” 

“But you _do_ remember now? You remember me? Baby me?” 

“Some stuff, yeah, I remember. I – uh –“ he raised his eyebrows, let out a soft self-deprecating huff. “I saved your life. I rescued you from a burning building.” 

“Dean, c’mon, don’t screw with me. You were, like, four, five years old?” 

“Yup, but I was still awesome.” 

Sam let out a long breath, chuckling to himself, that fond look in his eyes that meant he was just indulging Dean and his craziness. “Yeah, okay, you were the most awesome four-year-old ever.” 

“Sure I was. It’s one of the few things I remember. The night my mom – our mom,” he corrected quickly. “The night she died. She was killed in a house fire; I think I told you that?” Sam nodded. Dean licked his lips, nodded to himself. “Yeah, well, that night I have this vivid memory of being inside the house, and feeling hot, like, burning hot. Dad was calling my name, and he suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and he was holding you out – baby you. He put you in my arms and told me to take you outside, to go as fast as I could and not drop you. I must’ve done that, ‘cause the next thing I remember is standing outside the front of our house and being cold, the grass freezing under my feet. I remember staring up at the house and feeling so scared that I’d drop you, ‘cause you were really fuckin’ heavy,” he glanced at Sam and snorted. “Nothing much changed there.” Sam rolled his eyes and Dean smirked, before continuing: “Yeah, so I guess Dad must’ve come outside then and taken you back. Or perhaps, I did drop you on your head. I don’t remember, but, man, that would explain _a lot_.” He snorted, amused with himself, and saw Sam make a face at him. “Yeah, so bottom line is - you got me to thank for even being here right now.” 

Of course Sam’s expression went soft at that, sappy and loose as he gazed at Dean. 

“Thanks for saving my life, big brother,” he said.

“You’re welcome, but don’t ever call me that again.” 

Sam laughed out loud and jostled him with his elbow. “Brother, Dean, you’re my brother! Don’t you think it’s so crazy that we’re brothers – that you and I even met each other – and then fell in love and got together? Don’t you think, like, it’s just so ridiculously fucking crazy?” 

“Jesus, how drunk are you?” 

Sam shrugged. “Dude, I’ve been going over old photos of my dead, long-lost father with my boyfriend of nine years who also happens to be my long-lost brother. I think these kinds of situations call for vast quantities of alcohol.” 

Put like that Sam totally had a point, and also, it was so fucking weird laid it out like that: _my boyfriend of nine years who also happens to be my long-lost brother._ It was not surprising that they both deliberately didn’t think about this shit, that they walked around in fake ignorant bliss most of the time. Dean was pretty sure his brain was only capable of processing the reality of their beyond-fucked-up situation at very intermittent, alcohol-fueled moments. 

He went to get them another couple of beers from the refrigerator, tossing one into Sam’s lap as he lay sprawled across the couch. 

“Hey, move over,” he nudged Sam’s legs with his socked-foot. Sam moved over enough for him to slide in beside him, their bodylines still pressed together, all of Sam’s warmth bleeding into him. “You do realize,” he said conversationally after a few moments silence, “that this is the kinkiest thing we’ve ever done?” 

“Huh?” 

Dean smirked, peered up at Sam, lifting one eyebrow. “You and me, man. The handcuffs, cock rings, threesomes, foursomes, costumes – what we’re doing right now – just us being together - has gotta be dirtier than all of that shit put together.” 

“God, you’re twisted.” 

“Taking it as a compliment, Sammy. Anyway, you’re the one bangin’ on ‘bout us being brothers. I’m just trying to see the positive side of this – this crazy fucked-up situation.” 

“And seeing the positive side means getting off on the idea of fucking your little brother?” 

Dean squirmed; put like that it was – well, pretty unforgiveable, not to mention seriously off-putting, and yet – 

He hadn’t been put off, not once, and neither had Sam. They’d known now for… how long? Over a year at least, well over a year. And it hadn’t stopped them, it’d barely put a dent in the endless and awesome highway that was their sex-life. And sure, that was mainly because Dean was damn good at repressing, but he wasn’t _that_ good, and he did think about it. It crossed his mind all the time, including those occasions when he was sliding into Sam, when he was pushing his tongue into Sam’s asshole or when he was letting Sam tie him to the bed and ride him, he’d find the thought slipping into his head unbidden: _brother, this is my brother, I’m having sex with my little brother…_

“Man, I don’t know, don’t twist my words like that! You’re such a freakin’ lawyer!” 

Sam chuckled under his breath and bent to place his beer carefully on the carpet. He twisted around and reached to cradle Dean’s face in his hands. 

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m just messing with you.” 

Dean snorted, unimpressed, and Sam made a face, that ridiculous pouting face, and well, Dean couldn’t say no to that face – so he leaned in, took Sam’s mouth in his own, hearing Sam sigh out his name as the kiss got deeper, more passionate. 

He pulled away eventually, got up from the couch, holding out his hand for Sam. Sam took it and Dean guided him out the room and up the stairs to his old childhood bedroom, the photo albums lying forgotten on the floor. 

 

***

 

They came back from South Dakota with renewed vigor, a belief in themselves and each other that Dean didn’t realize he’d even been missing for the past year. He felt like they’d come to this arrangement, like something had been said and admitted and come to terms with, like an old refrigerator that had been cleared out, all the old rotten food thrown away, the wilted lettuce tossed in the trash and the sour milk poured down the sink. 

Dean’s brain felt like that: like a refrigerator that was now clean and sparkling and ready for some new groceries. 

Yeah, okay so the metaphor sucked, but the sentiment was there. They’d faced the reality of their situation and they’d gotten through it. They were brothers, but they were also lovers, and the lovers bit – the boyfriends bit – was the bit that counted, though they’d also agreed that they were no longer going to ignore the brothers part, they were no longer going to pretend – at least to each other. 

“Maybe if we start watching some incest porn?” Dean suggested one night as they lay in bed. “You know, Stu had this one series with these twins, like, real-life twins, and they were pretty popular. I think they were called Shaun and Shane or something lame like that. It was a real best-seller. It was hot, I watched it once.” 

“Are you fucking serious?” Sam sat up in bed, his face incredulous, eyebrows almost meeting his hairline. 

Dean frowned. “Yeah, totally.” 

Sam shook his head and looked like he was on the verge of flouncing out the bedroom in disgust, but he lay back down again, huffing and puffing as he rearranged his pillows and the covers and tutting under his breath. 

Whatever. Dean was totally going to order the movie anyway. 

He did, along with a couple of other twin-themed and one triplet-themed one, and Sam really didn’t seem to mind when he actually popped them in the DVD player they had in the bedroom and used exclusively for watching porn. 

“So these guys really are twin brothers?” Sam asked as they watched Shane fucking Shaun with an enormous two-headed dildo. 

“Well, yeah, look at them, they’re identical.” 

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “Huh. How do they get away with it? Where do they film this? I mean, incest is illegal. Though I guess Rhode Island doesn’t prosecute criminally for incest anymore, and of course New Jersey doesn’t apply any penalties when you’re over eighteen. Then if this is an import then they could’ve filmed in Germany, German incest laws don’t even cover homosexual sex which is ridiculous when you –“ 

“Sam, seriously, enough!” Dean pressed the pause button on the remote control, freezing on a close-up of Shaun’s red puffy asshole, and turned to glare at Sam. “This is supposed to be sexy times, not the freakin’ law review!” 

“Sorry, dude, just – I always thought I should know all that shit. Put it back on again, I promise I’ll pay attention this time.” He smirked and reached over to palm Dean’s cock. “See, totally in the mood for getting off to some incest porn.” 

Dean sighed manfully and pressed play on the remote, lying backwards to give Sam better access to his cock which weirdly enough hadn’t seemed to be turned off at all by Sam’s recitation of state incest laws. Sam seemed to be enjoying things too, particularly when Dean started fucking him in time with Shaun and Shane, and when it was all over – both the on-screen and off-screen sex – Sam collapsed on the bed beside him and sighed out, “Yeah, okay, so that was pretty hot.” 

 

In a strange way, the knowledge that Sam was his brother as well as his lover made Dean believe in them in a way he’d never really dared to before. Sure, Sam had always rambled on about how much he loved Dean, how theirs was a forever love and Dean was beautiful and perfect and Sam was so much in love with him that it hurt, blah, blah, blah. (Seriously, sometimes Dean experienced second-hand embarrassment at how freaking _gay_ his boyfriend could be). In Sam’s defense, he did only tend to get like that when he was drunk or high or about to orgasm, and Dean couldn’t really hold that against a guy. He dreaded to think of some of the embarrassing shit that poured out of his mouth when he was about to shoot his load up Sam’s asshole or all over Sam’s face. 

Dean had never entirely allowed himself to believe in Sam’s declarations of affection and forever love. He believed in tangible things. He put his faith in the fact they owned a business together, the fact that Rishi called him son, the fact that they had a joint account for household bills, the fact that Sam had life insurance which had Dean as the sole beneficiary. When your finances and your lives were entangled as much as theirs were it was too much of an effort to even bother breaking up. 

Even so, he still had his moments of doubt. He still found himself wondering just what the fuck Sam was doing with him, particularly as he was growing older, getting more grey in his hair, more lines around his eyes, a new softness around his middle, his perfect six-pack abs not quite so perfect anymore. But knowing now that Sam was not just his boyfriend, but his brother, that the two of them shared this huge unfathomable secret, that their relationship had gotten through something that would break most people, made him feel confident, smug almost, in their staying power. They’d gotten through the worst, they could handle anything now. 

It was just as well he was so certain of their relationship because Sam was going through another manically busy period at work, staying late nights at the office and flying out of town for client meetings practically every week. Rafael took to commenting on it, ragging on Dean about being the stay-at-home bitch, about Sam having an affair with one of the twinky male interns when he was supposed to be working late. 

“I tell you, man, my Maricruz, she works one the switchboards at one of those big fancy offices and she says they’re all at it. All of em’, fuckin’ sex crazed maniacs. I’m just sayin’, Dean, you’d better be sure you’re keepin’ your man happy in the bedroom, ‘cause I can bet my fine ass, he’s got some sweet-cheeked office boy offering up his cherry.” 

Dean just rolled his eyes, told him to quit watching so much gay porn in his spare time and get his lazy ass back to work. He comforted himself with the thought that it wasn’t going to last forever, Sam was already looking to move on, looking at jobs in the State’s Attorney’s Office, the first step in his big political dream. 

“It’ll get better next year,” Sam said one night when he crawled into bed shortly after two am. 

Dean blinked the grit out of his eyes and watched Sam set his alarm, another early morning flight to Seattle for another all day meeting. “Will it?” he mumbled. 

Sam turned and looked at him, his expression softening as he nodded. “Yeah, if I get this promotion to Associate then it’ll get better. I’ll have a couple of interns to myself to hand work off to.” 

Dean frowned, confused. “But I thought you’d decided not to go after the promotion. I thought you were going to apply for that position in the State’s Attorney’s Office.” 

He could almost see the shadow fall over Sam’s face, his expression shutting down as he turned his head away from Dean. 

“What? What’s wrong, man?” 

“I’ve changed my mind,” Sam said. He turned around again, an odd unreadable look on his face.

“What? But I thought you were – I mean what happened to you becoming California’s first out and proud Attorney General? That’s your dream, Sam!” 

“It was stupid,” Sam said flatly. “I didn’t think it through. I can’t do the political thing anymore. We can’t risk it. If I put myself out there as an openly gay politician, people will start digging. And well, we’ve got a lot to hide.” 

Dean said nothing and Sam reached to switch off the lamp, casting the room into darkness. Dean sank down into the bed and blinked up at the ceiling, his eyes slowly adjusting to the grey-dark, Sam moving around next to him, trying to get comfortable, rolling onto his side with his back to Dean. Dean turned his head and stared at Sam’s back, the nub of his spine, the soft messy strands of hair covering his neck, the jut of his shoulder blade and curve of his shoulder muscle. He wanted to reach out, touch Sam, pull him close, have him burrow into him as he usually did, whisper to him that it was still okay and that Sam could still go after his big political dream, that they’d be alright. 

But he didn’t move, he didn’t go to comfort Sam. The words seemed to stick in his throat, empty and meaningless. Sam was right. Their big secret, the truth about their relationship - they’d come to terms with it, embraced it almost, but the rest of the world was another matter entirely. 

Christ, they could be criminally prosecuted; they could be put in prison. Well, maybe not prison, he was sure Sam had the lawyerly skills to talk them out of that one. But the kind of publicity they’d get, and the notoriety. He’d lose the business; Sam would lose his job, and their families – 

Just the thought of what Aunt Marion and Uncle Jim would say if they ever found out that Sam was also long-lost baby Sammy. His stomach gave a lurch, his throat tightening. She’d never forgive him. She’d never be able to look him in the face again. She’d come to terms with his sexuality, with his relationship with Sam, but incest – you couldn’t forgive incest. 

There was only one thing for it; the secret had to stay secret, just between him and Sam, which was pretty much a no-brainer. It wasn’t like either of them wanted anyone to know. Apart from the adoption agency, no one else did know about Sam’s true origins. Rishi and Celeste had never asked about the birth family of the baby they’d adopted from the Santa Ana orphanage, they hadn’t wanted to know. And Uncle Jim and Aunt Marion had never known what’d happened to baby Sammy. 

He’d asked Aunt Marion during their last visit, one afternoon when Sam had been off somewhere with Uncle Jim, and she’d told him everything she knew. 

“We never knew what happened, honey. John just came by one day with you and asked if we could look after you while he went to Missouri for a job. Sammy wasn’t with him, and we asked him straight up: John, where’s Sammy? He said he’d given him to an adoption agency, no more than that – not even which town or which state he’d done it in.” She’d sighed, given him a sympathetic look. “You know how your father was, Dean. He never told anyone anything, and when he did say things, they never made a lick of sense. All that talk of monsters and poor Mary being killed by demons; he was such a mess after her death. They say that about some people – how they can’t handle their grief – poor John, he was one of those people. To be honest, baby, I was just too happy to take you off his hands to ask any more questions.” 

“So you think he just gave Sammy away? To some adoption agency?” he’d asked. 

She’d pursed her lips, said slowly, “You know, I was never really sure about that. I think he wasn’t being honest with me when he told me that. I always – I always suspected that Sammy had been taken, that John’d been forced to leave him behind. He said a couple of things once when he was drunk that made me think. And he was always running into trouble with the CPS in those days.” She’d sighed again, slid one hand over the table top to squeeze his hand. “You were so quiet and withdrawn, baby, back then. You were quiet after your Mom, of course, you grieved so much, but even so – “ She’d shaken her head sadly. “That time when John came back here without Sammy, you were different. I just knew that something terrible – something else terrible – had happened. I’m so sorry, Dean, but I really thought it was for the best when you didn’t remember your brother.” 

In retrospect, it all made a clear kind of awful sense. Child Services had probably taken both him and Sammy. He still had vague memories of that year after Mom’s death, before he’d settled with Aunt Marion and Uncle Jim for good. One particular hazy memory came to him sometimes like a nightmare: baby Sammy sleeping strapped into his car seat, still wearing his puffy, all-in-one travel suit, car seat propped up against the old musty couch where Dean was sleeping covered in a thin comforter, waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of his father sobbing at the flimsy kitchenette table.

Child services had taken them, or maybe the police, and Dad had gotten Dean back. But he’d left Sammy, Sammy who’d ended up at that orphanage in Santa Ana. Maybe Dad had chosen to leave Sammy, thinking his youngest would have a better life that way (he hadn’t been wrong), or maybe Dad had just been unable to get Sammy back. Whatever had happened, the entire experience had been traumatic enough for his five year old self to block it out, erase it from his memory, along with all his memories of a baby brother. 

But that was old news. What’s done is done, and all those useless clichés. The only thing that mattered now was that neither Aunt Marion nor Uncle Jim knew what’d happened to baby Sammy. They had no way of connecting his Sam with his long-lost baby brother. 

“Dean?” Dean started as Sam murmured his name, feeling Sam shift closer, toss one arm over his chest. Dean blinked, squirmed under Sam’s heavy arm, pinned to the bed. Sam opened his eyes, raised his head and looked at him. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he muttered. 

Dean huffed out a breath, said, “Shut up, go to sleep.” 

“Stop thinking then.” Sam wriggled closer, moving so his head was sharing Dean’s pillow, body burrowing around Dean’s into his usual limpet-like sleeping position. 

Dean sighed and closed his eyes, feeling Sam’s breaths puff gently against the side of his face.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam got his promotion a couple of months later, and like he’d predicted, his workload eased up a little. Dean’s workload, however, was getting bigger and bigger. The garage was always busy, their reputation spreading. They were now turning away business, getting inquiries from classic car owners as far away as Sacramento who’d heard of them by word of mouth. He expanded into the lot next door, buying out the bathroom fittings supply firm that’d gone out of business at a knock-down rate, thanks to Sam and some aggressive sounding legalese. He took on another couple of kids, letting Rafael and the other guys manage the day to day jobs while he trained the kids and managed the business. Sure, he missed working on the cars, but he was the owner, the manager, and he could hardly complain that his business – his and Sam’s business – was doing so well. 

It was Sam’s mother, Celeste, who suggested that Dean buy an old classic to rebuild in his spare time. Sam chipping in to comment that if Dean did decide to take up restoring classic cars as a new hobby, then his father had always wanted a 1960’s Cadillac Coupe de Ville, which would make an awesome present for his upcoming sixty-fifth birthday. Dean put some feelers out the next day, spreading the word around the classic car dealers and parts suppliers he knew. In the end, he found the car from a dealer in the Napa Valley, a 1962 silver four door model. It needed some serious work, but checking it over, he was confident that it was nothing that some major TLC, mechanical expertise and lots and lots of spare time wouldn’t fix. 

He had it towed to the garage and almost every Sunday over the next four months, he worked on it. Sam would come by the garage to keep him company, set his laptop up at the reception desk, just like he used to do back in the old days when he was still in school and Dean still worked for Brad. 

They gave the car to Rishi as a birthday present, a gift that had the old guy breaking down in tears and declaring never-ending devotion to Dean for the rest of his life, and that Dean truly was “the second son I never had.” Dean cleared his throat and nodded stiffly, accepting the effusive thanks with a forced smile. Even after ten years, he’d never gotten used to how freaking emotional Sam’s parents (and, hell, Sam too) could get. 

Rishi drove the four of them to some super-swanky restaurant with its own private beach for dinner later that day, handing off the keys to the parking valet with a proud flick of his wrist. He kept Dean occupied for almost the entire meal, talking about the car, asking what Dean had done to get it working again, suggesting other makes and models Dean should work on. A possible side business venture rebuilding old classic cars just between the two of them, Rishi supplying the capital to buy up the wrecks and the parts required, and Dean the mechanical expertise. Dean grinned and played along, happy to be talking about something he understood, something he loved, aware of Sam on the other side of the table, watching him with a fond, proud smile on his face. 

“So, what we really want to know, Dean,” Celeste said as the waiters cleared their second courses, “is when you’re going to make an honest man of our Sam? Rishi and I are not getting any younger.” 

Dean gaped for a second, then stammered coherently, “Uh, what?” 

Rishi laughed and patted his wife’s hand affectionately. “She just wants the opportunity to plan a big gay wedding, be the mother of the bride, you know how it is.” 

Sam snorted, while Dean grinned gleefully, nudging Sam’s foot under the table. “Man, I knew it. Even your folks think you’re the girl in this relationship.” 

Celeste narrowed her eyes slightly, but didn’t say anything out loud, giving Dean this tolerant, strained smile. Sam just ignored him, saying to his mother, “In case you haven’t noticed, Mom, gay marriage isn’t legal in this state.” 

“So we’ll fly to Canada, or Massachusetts or Vermont, hold the ceremony there, then come back here for the reception,” Celeste replied easily. “The Yacht Club would make a wonderful venue. I know they have openings next summer.” 

“Oh my God,” Sam groaned and dropped his head in his hands. “You’ve already got this planned out, haven’t you?” 

“You know your Mom,” Rishi put in. 

Dean looked between all of them with a bemused expression. “Are we still talking about our big fat gay wedding?” 

“Seems like,” Sam said. 

Dean nodded. His brain was working furiously, scenarios floating through it. They couldn’t get married, he thought, because when you get married you have blood tests and birth certificates. He didn’t have a clue if he even had a birth certificate, though there was probably a copy somewhere, maybe at the records office in Lawrence, which of course would also be where Sam’s original birth certificate would be. Though, maybe blood tests weren’t necessary for a gay marriage license in Massachusetts or Vermont or even fucking Canada? They were both dudes, they weren’t ever going to procreate. But the birth certificates, they would totally be needed.

Anyway, Sam was his goddamn brother, being in a long-term gay relationship with him was one thing, but being married to him… that was something else entirely. 

He exchanged a quick look with Sam. He could see even in that quick flash of eye contact, that Sam was going through the exact same thought process he was. 

He swallowed and pasted on a lazy, fake grin and reached out to give Sam’s arm a conciliatory pat. “Dude, I don’t know about you, but I have no intention of marrying your ass. No offence.” 

Sam let out a breathy sort of a laugh that only Dean could tell was mostly relief. “None taken.” Dean felt Sam’s foot jog against his own under the table, his calf rub against Dean’s. “Look, marriage isn’t for us, Mom. Maybe when Congress passes gay marriage for the entire country, maybe then.” 

Celeste snorted this time. “That’ll be when hell freezes over then.” 

“Don’t worry,” Sam said with his own lazy smile. “You can throw us a big party anyway. Maybe for my birthday, invite all the senior partners. I’m sure they’d show up if you and Dad hosted, and it wouldn’t hurt my chances of making partner.” 

“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” Rishi said in a musing tone of voice. 

“Oh yeah, I’m totally devious and awesome like that,” Sam said. “We gotta leverage our assets, right, Dad?” 

“Exactly, son.” 

Dean laughed, and he returned the pressure on Sam’s leg under the table. 

 

Celeste did throw a party, and most of the senior partners did come. It was one of those charity events that only seriously rich people attend. Well, seriously rich people and Dean, and about half of Dean’s clientele, most of them hanging around him all night, asking questions about what this or that little noise coming from the engine of their Porsche/Jaguar/Mazarati could be. Still, he couldn’t complain when he booked no less than five big jobs from it. And none of them could complain when only two months later, Sam made junior partner. At twenty nine, the youngest partner in the firm’s history. 

It seemed to Dean that everyone they knew was getting married that year; old college friends of Sam’s, co-workers and even Rafael was finally making an honest woman of the long-suffering Maricruz. Half of Sam’s old college buddies turned up at each other’s weddings with spouses and kids in tow, and Dean spent most Jess’s wedding in New York, entertaining Rebecca’s four year old daughter, Isabelle, who’d developed an enormous crush on him. 

“You’re a natural with kids,” Rebecca observed after Dean headed back to the table, having finally managed to hand Isabelle back to her father. “Have you guys ever thought about adopting? There’s a gay couple in my Pilates class who adopted. There are probably lots of agencies in the Bay Area who specialize in gay couples.” 

Dean hesitated, licking his lips awkwardly, and casting a quick glance at Sam who shrugged disinterestedly and said, “Nah, Bex, not for us. We’re not interested in kids. I know I’d be a terrible parent.” 

Becky laughed and said he was putting himself down, that you never really knew until you tried it yourself. Dean smiled half-heartedly and turned his attention back to the dance floor. 

Rebecca got up a few minutes later to retrieve her daughter, holding her in her arms as she told the little girl to say goodnight to Sam and Dean. Isabelle beamed at Dean and climbed onto his lap to wrap her small arms around his neck and plant a smacking kiss on the side of his cheek. He pulled away and smiled at her, feeling a lurch in his gut, a prickling resentment as he watched them leave. 

“Hey, you alright, man?” Sam asked. 

Dean nodded, not looking at him. “Yeah, fine.” 

“No you’re not, don’t bullshit me, Dean. What is it?” 

This time Dean hesitated. He couldn’t say exactly what it was, just that- 

He’d never even wanted kids. He’d never thought about having a family and children and being a father. He’d pretty much assumed that it was something that he would never have. At least, not while he was in a relationship with a guy, though, yeah, people did do that. But to completely close that possibility off, to have Sam come out and say categorically that it wasn’t something for them. 

He shrugged, said, “I just – I never knew you felt that way about having a family, about us adopting?” 

“What? You want to adopt? You’ve never said anything.” Sam’s tone was careful, but there was definitely an accusatory edge to it. “We’ve been together eleven years, Dean.” 

“I know, man, I know.” 

“So? You want us to adopt now?” 

“No, I just," he trailed off, reached for his beer. “Why you being so damn defensive?” 

“I’m not being defensive. I’m just surprised by your sudden change of heart.” 

“S’not a change of heart, Sam.” 

“So you’ve always wanted to be a father?” 

“I dunno, I guess so. Haven’t you?” 

“No,” Sam said shortly. “Why the fuck would you think that?” 

Dean exhaled heavily and sat back in his chair, pulling away from Sam. He raised one hand to his face, scrubbing it over his jaw, wiping the back of his mouth. He gazed over the almost deserted dance floor. People were getting tired; only the really hardened partiers left, everyone else retreating to their tables or up to their rooms, calling it a night. 

“Just ‘cause I was adopted, I’m supposed to want to do it, too? Is that it?” 

This really wasn’t going well. Sam was really pissed, that was definitely his pissed tone of voice. Hell, maybe they were having a fight? At someone else’s wedding. Pretty classy of them. And okay, so it probably had a lot to do with the large quantities of wine and champagne and beer the two of them had drunk, but still. He was too fucking tired for this shit. 

“Dean, are you gonna fucking say something?” Sam demanded. 

Dean sighed and turned his gaze back to his boyfriend; Sam was openly glaring at him now. This was definitely a fight. 

“What d’you want me to say? I think you’ve been very clear.” 

Sam barked out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, whatever. You know the question’s moot anyway. No fucking way we could adopt. You know the kinda background checks any reputable agency would run? We’d be asking to be found out.” 

Right, yeah, of course. He should’ve thought of that. He blinked, feeling his mouth twitch into a wry, little smile. 

They sat in mute, uncomfortable silence for a while as the music switched to the standard slow songs, Time After Time then fucking Lady in Red. Dean drained his beer, slammed his bottle back onto the table with a solid thunk, turned to Sam and said, “I think that’s our cue to leave. You ready to haul ass?” 

They fucked as soon as they got to the room, Sam pulling him down onto the bed, insistent hands in his dress shirt, tugging and tearing at the fine cotton fabric and wrestling with Dean’s belt. Fight, argument, disagreement, whatever, completely shoved aside in their physical need for each other. Sam pressed his face into Dean’s neck, inhaled greedily at his skin, sucking bruises and marks along his collarbone.

Dean forced him to the bed, wrestled him down face first, and climbed onto Sam’s back, straddling his thighs. He grabbed onto Sam's wrists with each hand and pinned him to the mattress. Sam canted up his hips, presenting his ass for Dean’s eager fingers. He took Sam with barely any prep, just Sam’s hoarse sigh as he pushed his lube coated fingers inside, followed immediately by his cock. Sam’s fingers scrabbled at the tangled sheets, his mouth open and panting into the pillow, lips shaping Dean’s name. They fucked, brutal and basic, no finesse, as Dean drove in and out of Sam – out of his brother – the thought springing unbidden into his head as he reached to tangle one hand in Sam’s hair, yanking his head back to bare that long, gleaming line of throat. 

He hesitated, caught for a moment – his brother – he was having sex with his brother – until he pushed it away, vanquished it in the same way he always vanquished these thoughts, Sam’s breathless, impatient groan bringing him back, forcing his hips into the last few thrusts towards the finish line. He dropped his hand from Sam’s hair, fumbled for Sam’s cock, feeling it twitch and throb in his lube-sticky hand as he brought Sam off. Sam’s orgasm rippled throughout his body until Dean was following, coming, jagged and spent, in Sam’s ass. 

He pulled out and collapsed beside Sam, huffing out a long breath and reaching down to snap off the condom. Sam rolled onto his side and placed one huge palm on Dean’s chest, his chin propped on Dean’s shoulder. Dean could feel his heart beating, loud thump, thump, thump under the burning brand of Sam’s enormous palm. 

They cleaned up perfunctorily, both of them squashed together so they didn’t have to sleep in the gross patch. Dean lay awake for a while after he felt Sam drift off. He shifted carefully onto his side, and stared at Sam’s face, at his parted lips, the tangle of hair against the pillowcase, the creases against his cheek, the lines spidering out from the corner of his eyes. Sam was twenty nine, and he was thirty three. Next year Sam would be thirty, they’d been together since Sam was eighteen. 

My brother, he said to himself, feeling the answering clench in his chest and roll in his gut. My brother, my boyfriend, my Sam. No one else had the kind of relationship they did, no one else had this kind of closeness. 

But there were consequences. Not just everything that’d come up today, not just that they were never going to get married or have kids, all that Dean had pretty much already come to terms with. But there was Sam’s dead dreams of a political career. And then there was what Dean privately thought of as the Sam-needs-a-kidney-scenario where Sam got terribly sick and needed a new kidney, so Dean offered up his own kidney, and the doctors were astounded by the genetic match. Yeah, so maybe Dean’s brain worked along the same lines as a soap opera, but it could happen, they could be exposed in a thousand fucking ways. 

There were consequences; they would have to live with those consequences for the rest of their lives. 

Sam shifted in his arms, yanking Dean out of his mangled thoughts. He blinked, watching Sam open his eyes and stare at him, their faces only inches apart on the same pillow. Sam looked at him for a long moment, then his mouth twitched and he rolled onto his back. 

“You okay?” Dean murmured. 

Sam huffed out a breath, said, “Yeah, I guess.” He hesitated and Dean could hear the sound of him swallowing. “Look, Dean, before, what I said about us not adopting any kids, I need you to know that it’s – it’s a deal-breaker for me. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t be a parent.” 

Dean took a breath, said, “Well, we can’t anyway, so it doesn’t matter.” 

“No, you need to know. I couldn’t do it. I’m too selfish to be a parent, kids deserve better than that.” 

“Yeah, you said that, but c’mon, man, you’re not that bad.” He sighed and shifted upwards, moving into a sitting position, his back against the headboard. It was obvious that this was going to be one of those “serious conversations” that Sam occasionally sprung on him. Sam tilted his head back, blinked up at him, his face looking younger and more vulnerable from this angle. 

“I couldn’t share you,” Sam burst out suddenly. “If we adopted a kid then that kid would be the most important person in your world, Dean, and you’d want to spend all your spare time with it – and well, that’s good, that’s normal, that’s the way it should be. But it wouldn’t be the most important person to me, and at some point down the line, I’d start resenting it for taking you away from me. I could never love anyone the way I love you – even a kid – our kid – and that’s wrong. It’s not fair on the kid or on you; it wouldn’t work for any of us. Like I said, I’m too selfish, too possessive.” He broke off, a self-deprecating curl to his lip, eyes flicking away from Dean’s. 

“Oh, well I guess that is kinda selfish,” Dean said. 

Sam huffed out a laugh. “Yeah.” He paused, then said, “I’m sorry, Dean. You know, if you want to. I mean, if everything I’ve just said is a deal-breaker for you, then I’d get it – if you want to leave I mean. Bex’s right, you would be a great dad and I’m selfish and I know I don’t deserve you most of the time–“ 

“Sam, Sam,” Dean interrupted him, “Sammy, c’mon, man, quit it.” He leaned down to cup Sam’s chin, tilt his head back so their eyes met. 

Sam’s eyes were wide open, hiding nothing, and Dean stared back at him, feeling as if Sam was looking into him, boring right inside him, rummaging around in his insides, seeing what was written on his heart, though there was nothing new there, only Sam’s name replicated over and over again. 

“You know it’s you, man,” Sam said. “Never been anyone else. Never will be. I don’t know if it’s because – because of the brother stuff, or if it’s just because you and me…” he trailed off, swallowing hard. “But I want you to be happy, Dean. I’d do anything to make you happy. I don’t want you to feel obligated to stick with me.” 

Dean shook his head slowly, smiling faintly at Sam. “For such a smart dude, you can be a real fuckin’ idiot sometimes,” he said. “Jesus, Sammy, as if I’d ever want anyone else. It’s you and me, man, always gonna be you and me.” 

 

***

 

A couple of weeks after they got back from New York, they made an offer for the beautiful four-bedroom colonial that’d come available down Myers Avenue in the north part of the city. The asking price was well into seven figures and made Dean break out into a cold sweat when he thought about it, so he tried not to think about it. He definitely didn’t think about how for the same price as they’d just paid out on one single (albeit really nice) house they could buy up Aunt Marion and Uncle Jim’s entire street. 

Sam, though, Sam was in his element. Cool as an icicle, haggling with the realtors over every damn line in the contract, getting the seller to drop his price by an additional 5% after viewing the survey, getting him to take care of some additional repair work that needed doing to the gables on the east side of the house. Dean just stood back and watched Sam at work, seeing the expressions of anger and inevitable triumph flit over Sam’s face as he argued over the phone, hearing the lawyerly realtor jargon spill from his mouth like it really was another fucking language. He decided that Sam in lawyer mode was fucking scary, and really fucking hot. 

They moved in a couple of months later, using a moving company this time. After the truck had been loaded up and the backseat of the Impala stacked with all the stuff they didn’t trust in the truck, they went back inside the building to say goodbye to the apartment. 

Dean wandered from room to room, his boots clicking out against the empty, echoing, hardwood floors. He stood in the middle of the empty bedroom and thrust his hands in his pockets, staring at the grooves in the floor where their bed had been, the chips and dents in the wall where the head-board had thumped and banged. He smirked to himself and tried to figure out exactly how many time they must’ve had sex in this room. 

“The answer is a lot. Possibly thousands of times.” 

He spun around to see Sam leaning against the doorjamb, watching him with a fond look on his face. 

Dean made a face at him. “Dude, stop reading my mind, it’s creepy.” 

Sam laughed, pushed up off the doorjamb to join him, sliding his arms around Dean from behind. He pulled him in tight, tree-trunk arms wrapped around Dean completely. Dean raised one hand, patted Sam’s forearm affectionately. Sam nuzzled into his neck, breathed out, “You smell so good, why’d you always smell so good?”

“I’ve been shifting furniture all morning, man, I don’t smell good, I fuckin’ reek.” 

“Mmm, even better,” murmured Sam. “More you, more musky.” 

Dean huffed out a laugh, shivering at the sensation of Sam’s lips on his neck, brushing over his jaw. He twisted in Sam’s arms, meeting him in a kiss. 

They made out for a while, standing in the deserted bedroom of their old apartment – the place they’d both spent ten years of their lives – ten fucking years living together, eleven fucking years dating. This place had seen everything. This place had seen them turn from lovers to brothers then back to lovers again, until they were wherever they were now: brothers-lovers-partners, all three at once. This place had seen it all. 

Dean pulled away, raised an eyebrow. “We got time for a quickie? Seems fitting that we say goodbye to this place properly.” 

Sam laughed, shook his head. “Man, I ever tell you that you’re sex-obsessed?” 

“All the damn time.” 

“Yeah.” Sam leaned in, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “How about we save it for the new place? Christen it right?” 

“I guess that’d work too.” Dean shrugged, pulled away from Sam. He walked towards the window; it looked naked without the curtains and blinds they’d had up so long, the ones that’d been embarrassingly dusty and dirty when they’d taken them down hours earlier. He pressed one hand against the glass, peered outside, blinking at the thin afternoon light. 

“It’s all gonna be okay, Dean, we’re gonna be okay,” Sam said. 

Dean turned his head, peered over his shoulder at Sam. Sam looked so hopeful, and so sure, so certain of what he was saying. 

This was the next stage in their lives. They were going to move into the house, Sam was going to make senior partner and Dean was going to keep expanding the garage. Maybe even open up a new one, he’d already seen a primo spot in Mountain View. They’d see their families at holiday times and they’d hold barbecues and pool parties in the back yard of their new place for their friends. They’d go out occasionally, not clubbing ‘cause they were both getting too old for that, but the fancy restaurants Sam loved and the divey bars with the right sort of beer he loved. They’d get older and heavier and greyer, but that wouldn’t matter because they’d still want to fuck each other as much as ever. They’d never get married nor have kids like other couples, but that wouldn’t matter either because they weren’t like other couples. 

Dean smiled at Sam, said, “Yeah. I know.” 

He locked the apartment door behind them for the last time, and handed the keys to Sam who sealed them into an envelope and shoved them into his pocket. Together they left the building, and headed for the Impala. 

 

THE END


End file.
